Flashover
by amidoh
Summary: At the brink of all-out war, a Prime is murdered and another must take his place. Optimus accepts this role, though there are many things that weigh his mind, the least of which is the sneering mech with the dark face.  OP/SS slash, eventually.
1. Prologue

**flash·o·ver**

–**noun **

_The stage of a fire whereby a room or other confined area becomes so heated that the flames flash over and through the vapours being produced by heated combustible contents in the space; __the sudden and rapid spread of fire through the air, caused by the ignition of smoke or fumes from surrounding objects. _

* * *

"Cybertron will go on."

With a gasp of rushed air as though to refute such a claim, the jet forced the muzzle of his gun against the other mech's chest, but it did not seem to help much, if at all. That infuriating calm still crawled its tendrils over his limbs, _through_ him….

"Cybertron will live on."

"It will _not_! I shall see to it!"

There it was again, that know-it-all smirk that Starscream couldn't stand the sight of. The expression that silently spoke the words 'I'm better than you'. That foolish overconfidence that, no matter what, the wearer knew he would be right. And to think, the jet had once been enthralled by that expression.

"Cybertron will fall," growled Starscream, his voice hardly betraying the waver in his spark. The complete lack of _anything_ from his opponent was putting him on edge. Even though Prime surely knew he was defeated, he was still smirking. Still that same Primus-forsaken smirk -! Starscream growled again. He was sure he was being mocked.

"There were Primes before me," said the Autobot leader as calmly as he ever spoke, "and there will be Primes after me."

Starscream shrieked as though the words had driven an energo-sword into his very spark. His words, when they came, were furious and jumbled. "There will be Decepticon leaders after Megatron!"

"Who? _You_?"

A burning humiliation grew in the pit of Starscream's abdomen. "Don't you dare -" but Prime had already spotted the weakness – or perhaps he had known it was there all along.

"_You!_ Lead in place of _Megatron_! Don't make me laugh. You're no more a leader than I am a mine-slave."

Starscream howled in fury, beads of fluid flying from his lips as he hurled back his head like a wounded animal. The muzzle of his weapon, though not sharp, pierced Prime's shoulder with the strength of the jet's rage as he thrust it forward.

Just like always, Prime didn't even show any pain. Damn son of a glitch.

"What will this accomplish?" the Autobot leader growled, his voice sonorous and low enough to be called a purr. The vibrations caught Starscream by the throat and choked his first words. "What are you planning to achieve? You will be wiped out and Cybertron will go on. Just as it always has done. Primus has ways of regenerating the losses of his children."

Wrenching his gun to the side with a feral growl, Starscream tore Prime's shoulder open. Energon spattered up onto his face, over his lips, but he was too distracted to even lick it away – something he usually found most enjoyable during the heat of a kill. From the look in the calm purple optics, it was obvious the Autobot leader knew of his fate. That just irritated the jet further.

Rage fighting the dregs of his fear, pushing them aside, he pressed the gun's muzzle once again against Prime's chest. Had he touched that same plating with his fingers, he knew he would have felt the heat of the other mech's spark beneath.

A trickle of energon escaped a bitten lip, the tetrajet's grey features, so dark they were almost black, were taut and purposefully blank as one slender blue finger tightened around the trigger. Although the shot was all but silent, ripping through the still air like a beacon to those still-loyal Autobots patrolling the area, Starscream did not seem to hear it.

Prime's body slumped to the ground, the glow from those iridescent mauve optics flickering and finally dying away, sputtering out in a metaphor of the leader's spark. Instinctively, Starscream took a step back away from the lifeless corpse, taking a moment to get himself under control. This weakness would not do; it was not as though he had not seen death before – as though he had not _caused_ death before…

Shakily, ignoring the crescendo of no-doubt Autobot voices from the surrounding maze of narrow alleys and winding streets, the jet opened a communications link.

"Megatron," he gasped into the small in-built radio on his wrist, "Megatron –"

"_What is it, Starscream_?" snapped the hoarse voice, distorted with static from the poor connection. Starscream glanced back at the still-smoking corpse as though it might attack him, though the disgust was evident on his faceplates.

"Zeta Prime is dead."


	2. First

"Zeta Prime is dead."

Optronix looked up from his archives, staring unabashed at Xaaron. The Emirate had not been talking to him, rather to his underling and protégé, an up-and-coming senator by name of Reverence, but neither one of them noticed the lack of privacy; there were larger things to worry about than a single silent Autobot overhearing news that, within two cycles, would have spread around the planet.

"How?" asked Reverence quietly. Though his model was not old, the black-and-purple mech emitted an aura of weariness that far exceeded his vorns. Unusually for an uppercaste, his paint was chipped and peeling and his features haggard and worn – a sign of neglect more commonly seen among those who worked physical labour, not those who served as intellectuals or politicians.

Xaaron shook his head. "Megatron's assassin. A military model, of course, and very efficiently executed. Seems Prime was unarmed at the time."

"Zeta Prime, unarmed?"

Both high-bornes looked toward Optronix, who had least had the decency to look embarrassed for his outburst. Apologetically, he raised one hand. "Forgive me, my Lords, I spoke out of line –"

"Forgiven, Optronix," said Xaaron magnanimously as Reverence grunted softly, clearly less inclined to forgiveness than his mentor. "You can be forgiven for your surprise," Xaaron cast a stern look at his protégé, "Zeta Prime was not, after all, a mech known to be unarmed." This was rather an understatement; other than Sentinel Prime, who had certainly been the most hands-on military mech of any Prime in history, and perhaps Nova Prime, who had mysteriously disappeared without a trace one day, presumed assassinated by off-worlders, Zeta Prime was the most well-armed of any Autobot leader in the history of the Matrix.

"How, Lord Emirate, was a filthy slavemech able to catch Zeta Prime unarmed?" asked Reverence, his voice hollow with disbelief. The question earned him a stern look from the gold-bodied emirate.

"Perhaps the same way, Reverence," answered Xaaron firmly, "that one of those, ah, 'filthy slavemechs' was able to tear Sentinel Prime from his armour and beat him to death." Reverence flinched at the mention of the previous Prime, whose militaristic and stable reign had been ended violently and abruptly. "Ah, I see you have not forgotten his ignoble passing. If we can learned something from this, it is that we ought not underestimate this southern threat. To do so, as both our unfortunate Primes have shown, is a fatal error."

"It is not becoming to speak ill of the memory of a Prime," mumbled Reverence through grit teeth. Optronix watched him carefully. It had been no secret that Reverence had been, before the uprisings that had cost the government so much, Sentinel Prime's consort. It was often rumoured among those senators jealous of Reverence's quick ascension in the ranks of the court had been mostly due to Sentinel's influence, though the black-bodied flier never commented either way, even when the whispered murmurs were loud enough to reach his audios.

Still young and inexperienced in the political scene, however, Reverence had not quite perfected the careful expressionless lack of emotion that most mechs wore when confronted with something they did not want to face, and, as such, when mentions of his dead partner reached him, a look of quiet anguish would light upon his faceplates.

"This does leave us with something of a problem," said Xaaron calmly, obliviously ploughing through the heavy atmosphere brought about by the contemplation of Sentinel Prime's death. "Two Primes have now died within a vorn of each other. The Council has informed me that the Matrix no longer responds to those they choose to bear it."

Optronix wordlessly turned his attention back to his archives. Now that the conversation had turned to serious matters, it was hardly likely that Xaaron and his rising protégé would appreciate a comparative commoner listening in.

He was wrong.

"Optronix," Xaaron called the red and blue mech's attention back to him. "I would like you to look into your archives. I am sure that there must have, at least once in Cybertron's long history, have been a time when two Primes died within a vorn of each other. Find such an event. Tell me what the Council did to house the Matrix, if it was as uncooperative then as it is now."

"At once, Lord Emirate." Nodding his understanding, Optronix let his fingers dash across the numberpads, pulling up several holographic articles and poring through them with practiced speed and thoroughness. Acutely aware of the two uppercastes watching him with their penetrating gazes, the young archivist did not search with the same near-obsessive accuracy that he might usually have utilized, if only to save time that the politicians doubtless did not have.

Xaaron was content to stand still as he waited, while the less-patient Reverence was reduced to pacing back and forth agitatedly, still not quite recovered from the Emirate's barbed comment about the late Sentinel Prime.

"Er –" Optronix glanced up from his records just long enough to verify that both members of his audience were listening, "it seems that there was a similar occurrence in the cases of Guardian Prime and Alpha Prime, the latter of whom was crushed to deactivation in an accident during an official mine visit not four deca-cycles after Guardian Prime's passing. The Matrix was to be passed to Citarex but it rejected him and melted most of the components in his chest cavity, even after it had been removed. It is recorded that he screamed three full orns until his spark chamber liquefied and destroyed him."

Xaaron muttered an Iaconian curse to himself. "It's always the bloody mines, isn't it… what did the Council do?"

"Well… it reads here that a mech came forward several orns after Citarex died, claiming to have been visited by visions of past Primes in recharge. He asked to be trusted with the Matrix, saying that the Primes told him the Matrix had chosen him for its bearer. Without any other options, and seeing him as expendable should it be a repeat of Citarex' misfortune, the Council elected to let him try. The Matrix accepted him and he became the next Prime."

"Who was it?"

"Er… Nova Prime, my Lord."

Xaaron swore again. "That does _not_ inspire confidence."

Silently, Optronix began to close down his archives, if only to preoccupy himself and not have to pay attention to the political discussion that was bound to follow between mentor and protégé. Politics had always exhausted the archivist.

"The Matrix chose its own bearer… and that mech turned out to be a psychotic mass-murderer." Xaaron passed a hand over his face. "Cybertron is descending into civil war. If we as Autobots are to survive with our way of life intact, the very _last _thing we need is a Prime who thinks that sentient races are built for target practice."

Reverence, who had stopped pacing, was staring at the floor with a hard, cold, ruthless gaze. "A Prime must be noble and righteous. Courageous. A powerful warrior. Nova Prime was powerful but he was none of the others. The Matrix cannot be allowed to choose its bearer – why not force it on a shell? A mech simply to bear it while the Council makes decisions for this war?"

"And risk another death like this poor wretch Citarex? I am _surprised_ at you," the golden-bodied Emirate eyed his younger student carefully, "I thought you were made of more compassionate material."

"If I may," said Optronix quietly, "with my Lord's pardon for the intrusion, perhaps it is best to leave the Matrix to makes its choice. Alpha Prime's short reign, according to the most reputable of reports, was fraught with talk of a military coup. Cybertron was technologically advanced but there was no attempt made to expand or explore, and the more warlike mechs were becoming restless, it seems… and which mechs did Nova Prime take with him on his ill-fated campaign to Benzuli?"

Xaaron nodded slowly. "He took the warlike mechs. I see what you mean, young archivist. Perhaps the Matrix _did_ avert a political crisis like the one we are now struggling through. Very well, I will relay your insight to the Council."

Bowing and turning to leave, Optronix happened to catch sight of the black-bodied Reverence from the corner of one optic. He was taken aback at the look of great dislike that had spread across the normally regally-blank faceplates. The flash of hatred was gone almost as soon as he had noticed it, leaving him questioning whether it had ever been there at all as he left the large, albeit disorganized, archive room.

oOo

If he had been Iacon City Archivist, a title held in some esteem by the uppercastes, Optronix might have owned impressive quarters. As a junior, however, he had a single room, a battered old berth in one corner and a small storage cupboard on the opposite side.

Near the door there was a large table, the surface of which was invariably covered in scattered datapads, discarded any which way after Optronix came home late from a long day or, considerably more rarely, staggered in, drunk from poor energon, after an accidental night with certain colleagues whose idea of fun it was to visit the less financially fortunate areas of the city. Neatly tucked under the desk was a backless chair that was never sat on.

On one of the walls there was a holographic image of several mechs Optronix had known at the docks of the Rust Sea, where he had done a brief stint as a freightline book-keeper before he was transferred to the archives. Of the five of them, only one did he still manage to keep in contact with: the light-bodied pink-coloured mech who had shyly introduced himself as Ariel. The other walls were blank but for a single timepiece, old and very worn, which sporadically showed the wrong solar-position of the vorn. For as long as Optronix could remember, it had been an orn behind the correct day of the cycle.

Inattentively chucking the unimportant datapad he was holding onto the pile of others strewn over the desktop, Optronix deftly pulled a small cube from the storage cupboard, flipping it and tapping it with practiced ease as he all but threw himself into a reclining position on the berth.

Two Primes, dead in a deca-cycle… both of them murdered by the undercastes they had scoffed at. Quaffing the cube and hurling the empty container aside, Optronix threw an arm over his optics in a mixture of frustration and worry. Where was the new Prime? The Autobots could not survive without a Prime.

"What if the Matrix chooses another Nova…?"

More so than not having a Prime, another Nova Prime might be instrumental in destroying the last remnants of the aeon-old Autobot governing force for good. Or… was an expansive, overly-military mind like Nova Prime's what the Autobots needed in the face of the southern threat? _Sentinel_ had been a military mech, but even his tight regime in Kaon had failed against the cunning organization of the rebels.

Optronix moved his arm so that the red of his forearm rested on the crest of his helm, his optics free to seek out the picture of Ariel. "Uniting the city states should be a priority. Security to those most at risk… Polyhex, Tyrest, Uraya, Hyorax… they're too close to Kaon to last much longer… Altihex, Nova Cronum… they are science facilities and hunting turfs for rich mechs… they don't even _have_ standing military forces…"

The silent faces in the holographic image stared back at him, grinning their worriless lives. The archivist stared back, envious of the carelessness he had known on the docks.

"Iacon can't survive if the other cities fall…" he sighed, talking as much to himself as to the unhearing image. "… but the senators are too concerned with self-preservation to listen to a strategy based around helping others."

Discouraged and worried for the future of the once-gleaming capital of Cybertron, the once-industrious hub city that had held the envy of every outsider, Optronix rolled on the berth to face the wall and stared at that blank, empty space as recharge was hard coming.

oOo

"I have never seen such a vicious attack," said the coroner as he carefully extracted an alien shard of metal from the corpse of Zeta Prime.

Optronix sat with his stylus ready as the doctor, a skilled forensic scientist with only the best recommendation from Altihex, examined the dead leader. Optics dim with the lack of recharge after a fretful night haunted with bad sleep-visions, it was all the archivist could do to hold the stylus ready and try to concentrate on the quiet, well-spoken coroner and his multi-syllabic words.

"It's clear to me that the cause of death is this," the red-bodied medic, Perceptor, pointed to scraps of blackened metal deep within the chest cavity that had once contained Zeta Prime's spark chamber and the Matrix of Leadership. "A thermo-invasive propulsion that entered here," he indicated a point slightly to Prime's left side, "and passed through the inferior xiphoid processor, nicking the external laser core, before exiting through the dexterous latissimus dorsal plate."

Optronix stared. "Er –"

"A gunshot," translated the coroner patiently, "entering through his chest, melting vital internals and exiting through the lower plating on the right of his back. Plasma or laser, from the internal carbonization. I would estimate that death was instantaneous."

"Is that unusual, doctor?" asked the archivist as he scribbled this down, ready to sort into the records later. "I would have thought that would have been one of the normal targets for an assassin, especially one using a gun."

With his scalpel, Perceptor gently indicated a ring of charred metal near the small entrance wound on Prime's chest. "Exodermal carbonization, a ballistics phenomenon caused by elongated exposure of the plating to a surface exceeding vaporization temperature for cybertronium. In most cases, it is indicative that the weapon was less than a nano-hic away from the plating when a shot was fired. This is conclusive evidence that Zeta Prime was shot at -"

"-point blank range…" breathed Optronix, speaking the words at the same time as the scientist. His optics widened a little as he wrote this down and stared at it. "Doctor, this makes no sense!"

Perceptor looked up from the corpse briefly. "These are the facts as I read them."

"Then they are stupid facts!" Optronix shook his head, optics offline. The lack of decent recharge the orn prior was wreaking havoc with his normally-inestimable temper. He had not meant to snap at the coroner. "Zeta Prime was unarmed when he was killed. He was never unarmed! Most reports say he even _slept_ with his rifle. Now he was killed by someone standing right next to him? By a _plasma_ gun? His personal guard were the only ones allowed near him for any length of time and they are issued _fusion_ weapons…! He would have been on alert if there was anyone else near him, and he would have killed them kliks before they were able to press a gun to his chest and aim for a fatal shot…"

Words dying away at the stern look Perceptor gave him, Optronix, rather meekly, returned his attention to his datapad, quickly jotting down this new information. Of course, he had forgotten his place. The red-bodied microscope had come to Iacon specially recommended by the Altihexian authorities, and his status was equally impressive: his record read that he was Head of the Cybertronian Institute of Metallurgy, not to mention a core member of the Urayan Guild of Coroners. It was hard to come by a forensic pathologist with a higher recommendation, and Optronix was, in the eyes of the caste system (though relatively high-ranking himself), a mere spec of dirt compared to someone like Perceptor.

Thankfully, Perceptor seemed to have already forgotten the breach of caste protocol.

"The wounds I have described thusfar would not suggest vicious attack but rather close-range murder, or, perhaps, though far less likely, suicide. However, and take this down as I dictate, Optronix," he glanced up for the nod to show the archivist was ready, "there appears massive trauma to the areas surrounding the cerebral exostructures, comma, the optical matrices, comma, and the submandibular cortices, period."

Optronix nodded once to affirm he had managed to copy this down accurately.

"To the head, face and neck area there is extensive damage but lack of internal bleeding in some cases and limited energon spillage in others suggests trauma was sustained posthumously. The anterior energon artery has been severed. The larynxial tract and vocoder have been crushed." With his forceps, the red mech carefully extracted a shard of metal, the same colour as that of Zeta Prime's chestplate. "Although the gashes to the arterial matter is clean, I would suggest the cause to be blunt trauma, most likely pede rather than weapon. The damage to the facial superstructure suggests that the kicks were erratic and irregular, rather than planned, suggesting great anger or other emotion."

As Perceptor's voice died away, Optronix found himself studying what he had just written on the datapad. "A close-range fatal gunshot from a mech within Prime's trust enough for our leader to be unarmed and who held enough anger to kick his head in after death…" he glanced up, seeing the grim look on the coroner's faceplates, "… but that could only mean that an _Autobot_…"

"Optronix!" snapped Perceptor, and the archivist jerked into silence. When he again looked at his superior, the expression he wore was not unkind but was still firm, stern and cold with the jaded practice of one whose purpose is to examine corpses. "You are an archivist, _not_ a detective. Leave the theories and the conjectures for those who are meant to carry out those purposes. Iacon is sending Nightbeat. Report to him, if you must, but he does not take kindly to baseless conjecture… and neither do I."

"Yes, sir." Optronix sounded suitably chastised, realizing he had overstepped his caste yet again, and that Perceptor was well within his rights to deal physical punishment, in accordance with caste law, should the scientist feel it was required.

It seemed, thankfully, that Perceptor was not a violent mech.

"This autopsy is to remain in the strictest confidence. It is a great mark on your record that you were the one to take it, and your efficiency will serve you well in the future – but you are to file away that record and put it from your processor."

"Yes, sir," replied Optronix meekly, remembering his place this time.

A look of tiredness filtered over Perceptor's faceplates as he drew back, wiping his energon-soiled hands on a ragged chamois to clean them of Zeta Prime's life-fluid. "Please fetch the Emirate and tell him I have reached all conclusions I can pull from Prime. Ask him to come in here and speak with me. There is much we need to discuss."

With a nod, Optronix tucked the datapad away about his person for later filing and dismissed himself from the small surgery.

oOo

It was all well and good for Perceptor to give orders for Optronix to put the bizarre circumstances surrounding Zeta Prime's death from his mind, but in practice it was proving… difficult.

Laying on his back on the berth in his modest quarters, his optics dim and fixed on the holographic picture of Ariel and the other mechs he had once known at the docks, the archivist tried to ignore the confusion swirling in his mind. It made no sense. Could an _Autobot _really have killed Zeta Prime? Even Nova Prime, widely believed to be the most hated Prime in the history of the planet, had disappeared on a scouting expedition with his entire ship and crew, not been assassinated by his own people. The rank of Prime was sacred, a mark of being chosen by Primus himself. Anyone to kill a Prime was automatically damned…

What Autobot could hold a hatred so strong he would risk that chance?

Restlessly rising to a sitting position on the berth, Optronix let his fingers brushing over the scarcely-used elevation and power controls near the slight indentation for his helm.

Once again, he found himself looking at the picture of Ariel. Its inhabitants smiled silently back at him, eternally carefree, trapped in a moment of mindless bliss. Optronix was not usually so sentimental, more a rational-minded mech of reason. It was unusual for him to spend so much time brooding, and even rarer for him to talk to the picture of his long-gone friends. Though it nagged at the very back of his processor, the archivist found himself unable to explain the sudden, seemingly unprovoked fascination with brushing the dust away from his old memories.

From his holographic freeze-frame, Ariel held no answers for Optronix, neither concerning the mysteries surrounding Zeta Prime's death nor about the young archivist's sudden fascination with the whimsicalities of talking to a lifeless portrait.

Optronix smirked wryly and collapsed back to lay sprawled halfway on the berth, his legs dangling over the side. How ridiculous he had been to even consider there might be some miraculous response from an old photograph. Perhaps it was time to check himself in to the medical bay and ask for a system flush. It seemed there were bugs in his processor…

"No need for such extremes, Optronix," said a voice by his pelvis. Optronix sat upright in shock, jarring his neckstruts with the speed at which he moved. As the flashing glitch-lights cleared slowly from his vision, his gaze dragged to from whence the voice had emanated.

The helm and the helm colour was slightly changed, a far deeper pink than before, but that serene smile and those gentle optics were the same. Somehow, perhaps in answer to the miracle that Optronix had subconsciously asked for, Ariel was sitting on his berth.

But…

While it was unmistakably Ariel, it could not be his old friend. Rather than the blocky, rigid chassis of a heavy-goods labourer, as was common in dock workers, the mech's body was lithe and agile, the lower back bent in a sinful curve. In the thorax area, over where Ariel's spark chamber would be, the metal was warped even more mysteriously; instead of the flat surface of spark plating, Ariel's chest now protruded outwards in two equal-sized curves.

Repulsed, it took Optronix considerable effort not to shrink away from the dreadful, ugly, violated apparition of a mech that lingered in front of him, wearing the face of one of his dearest friends.

"… Ariel?"

"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" it was Ariel's voice, but the lips that spoke were fuller and more rounded than the dock-worker's had ever been.

A gasp punctuated Optronix' words when he managed to find his voice. "… Ariel… what happened to you?"

With a sonorous laugh, far higher pitched than Optronix remembered Ariel's voice being, the apparition – for it could hardly be the _real_ mech sitting in his berth, could it – shook his head. "That has not been my name for a while now… I received a new name with my upgrades. I go by Elita-1 now, Optimus."

Optronix stared. There was so much that was just… _wrong_ with that statement, he did not know where to start. "… upgrades?" he tried, tentatively.

It earned him another chuckle. "Yes. I'm in the military now. I received the upgrades when they assigned me to covert missions. I am now far more stealthy than I could have been as Ariel, and far more useful as a result… you saw how clumsy I was then."

"…" Each word made Optronix want to cringe away further, but he held his ground. "Why join the military? You always told me you were happy at the docks."

Perhaps, because the strain of trying to keep his distaste from his voice was so great, some of it leaked through. Ariel – no, 'Elita-1' certainly seemed to pick up on it, the falsely-jovial expression slipping somewhat.

"Cybertron is descending into civil war. I thought you, of all mechs, would have noticed. _You_ were always sensitive to the planet's political problems, even though you pretended not to be. Times are changing and we must make changes with them, Optimus. You will come to understand this."

There it was again. The name that, though similar, was not his. Did this strange mech who carried such strong hints of a long-lost friend mistake him for someone else? It did not seem so, as 'Elita-1' seemed to be sharing the same memories he was reaching for…

"My name is not Optimus," the archivist said, as gently as he could manage. Though it was foolish, he felt proud that he managed to keep his voice from wavering.

"Yet."

The monosyllabic answer momentarily floored him. "Excuse me?"

"You are not Optimus yet. That will come."

"I'm afraid I… don't quite follow." The lingering feeling of disgust was growing faster and faster as Optronix' suspicions as to what this cryptic message was spiraled downwards. "Are you trying to persuade me to undergo the same… _violations_ that you have accepted? I will not warp my body to look like some – some –!" he spat his words as though they were a curse, unable to keep the repulsion at bay any longer. "I refuse!"

The pink mech's expression had become stony and closed, cyan optics dimmed to almost nothing. "It is good you have made your stance on my upgrades clear, though the Optronix _I_ knew would never have been so rude. No, I am not suggesting you undergo any sort of modifications. I am _telling _you it _will_ happen, whether or not you want it. The Matrix has chosen you, Optimus Prime, and you will bear it until your spark passes to nothing."

The silence that followed this statement was heavy and oppressive, weighing down on the archivist and his ethereal companion. Tentatively, Optronix reached out one blue hand to touch 'Elita-1'… and to his great relief, his fingers passed straight through the other mech's torso.

"I knew it had to be a bad stasis-vision," he breathed to himself, the sigh audible clearly in his voice, which was suddenly lightened. Rather it was a dream, his going insane, than Ariel had become such a twisted, un-mech-like abomination. Rather it was some hallucination of his old friend than his having to take the burden of all Cybertron on his shoulders. That responsibility was for mechs like Sentinel Prime, not for a lowly stylus-pusher.

'Elita-1' regarded him coldly. "You are awake," he said, his tone bitter, "and you will accept your role. The Matrix itself has chosen you, and until you are mech enough to stand and take that power, _and_ all the duties it carries with it, Cybertron is doomed to fall to the rebellion in the south. There is no leader, Optimus, and there will be no leader until you take your place."

But Optronix shook his head. "I don't want this…" he complained, voice barely a whisper. "I have not asked for this… Let the Matrix choose a bearer worthy. I am no Prime."

The pink mech rose suddenly, quite violently. A frosty glare marred the faceplates Optronix had thought he recognized. "I am disappointed." The words came, cutting and hurtful, in an unstoppable tirade that, though not loud, made the archivist's audios ring uncomfortably. Though the apparition must have been but a dream, it was still the voice of his dear Ariel that condemned him so. "Clearly the Matrix could have made a better choice than you! Yet it did choose you, and, until you're mech enough to step up and accept that, how many mechs in the lower cities do you think will die?"

Optronix stared at the berth where 'Elita-1' had been sitting, not watching the apparition move away from him.

"A fine Prime you are shaping up to be," the parting words were just as cold as those preceding. "You are not the Optronix that I remember."

When it registered that he had been called by his name instead of the name of some nonexistent Prime, Optronix raised his head to look – but the phantom had already disappeared.


	3. Second

It was several weary, nearly-recharge-free orns later that Optronix felt his will breaking. The strange half-dreams, half-hallucinations had not ceased with the deformed, physically violated apparition of his friend Ariel. On the contrary, they had become stranger yet.

As he was sitting at his desk in office the morning after his experience with the butchered Ariel, another figure had appeared before him, a young mech whom he recognised as a worker from the Data Collection division by the name of Saber. Despite that he was not acquainted, he knew through hearsay that Saber, though not yet mature, had a good head on his shoulders and spent most of his free time training with an energo-sword. By all accounts, Saber was genial, polite and refined, speaking with the grace of a humble uppercaste (and such a thing was rare to find these days) but the vision Optronix had seen curtly told him to mech-up and accept his responsibilities. It was a disgrace, Saber had said, to the honour of a true-sparked Autobot that their destined leader cowered and remained anonymous.

Optronix had offlined his audio receptors, but the voice had still echoed in his processor. Giving up, he had tried his best to ignore it, but that was a task much easier said than done. When Saber had disappeared, in the same haunting way as every other face (most of them mechs he could not yet put a name to but who had claimed to be under his command as Prime) had vanished, it took a while to regain his composure and try to concentrate on his work.

None of the swimming faces had been as surprising as the last, however. After a tiring orn filing menial data on uninteresting but extremely dense reading, as he had brokenly huddled onto his recharge plate to see if he could chase the relaxation that so skilfully eluded him, the apparition – by now, of course, not entirely unexpected – had been, to the young archivist, so shocking that he had leapt back as though scalded and fallen clean off his berth.

His pristine, well-tended body bent awkward in the inverted 'L' shape of a gracious, self-humbling bow, the image of Perceptor stood before him. Unlike many of the others, the edges of his brightly-coloured plating were not even shimmering. For a moment, Optronix felt that if he reached out to touch, the vision might be real, his fingers might just touch living plating...

It was not that it was Perceptor that was shocking. Less than a deca-cycle prior, Optronix had been working with the famous theorist on Zeta Prime's body, and had even, to his secret pleasure, held an extended and relatively insightful conversation with him, something that most mechs of his caste would never dream of being able to claim.

However, Perceptor was one of the most, if not _the_ most, highly-regarded scientists on the planet. Such a position of esteem, regardless of his social status at creation, carried with it certain perks – most notably, the fluidity to move easily upwards through the strict caste ranking system of Cybertron's Autobot government. Though Perceptor had probably onlined as nothing more than a lab drone, he was now widely regarded to be of a caste that held almost the same clout as a senator, if not a state governor. Of course, to survive in the vicious world of the political elite, the microscope had, for the most part, adopted the many necessary social norms for his standing.

Despite that he had showed restraint more common of the lower classes he had doubtless risen from (his not physically punishing Optronix for the latter's gross misconduct during Zeta Prime's autopsy, for example, was unusual; any normal aristocrat would not have hesitated to send the archivist head over heels for the offence), he would _never_ bow to a labourer such as the young stylus-mech. Not with the honest reverence and respect that this apparition showed, stooped so low that his torso was nearly parallel to the ground.

"May I say," Perceptor's elegant voice had echoed slightly as though he were speaking through a long but narrow tube, "that it is a great honour for me to be personally requested by you, Optimus Prime. To hear your high praises of me..."

"Stop it!" Optronix had cried, swiping forward with one hand. His arm had passed straight through the apparition's waist, which had disappeared momentarily and then shakily morphed back into place. The shade of Perceptor had kept talking as though nothing had happened.

" – more extensive training in forensics, I admit, but I shall embrace this challenge eagerly... as I hope you shall do with the challenge of Prime, sir."

"I'm not a Prime!" wailed the archivist, severely more disturbed by the sight of an upper-caste _bowing _to him and treating him with such formality than he had been even by the ghastly curved mutation that had claimed to be an upgraded Ariel. "I'm _not_ a Prime!"

No matter how many times he screamed at it, no matter how many punches he threw at the ethereal scientist, shattering the frail-looking, delicate face and neck several times only to see them reform each time, Perceptor remained unperturbed. The translucent microscope continued to speak until his piece was done; it was a good seven or eight frustrated punches later, when, finally, he bowed again and melted away into nothing.

Severely spooked, Optronix had fled his quarters and disappeared into middle Iacon for half a stellar-cycle. It had been a thoroughly foolish thing to do, as only unaligned mechs, Empties and those with dark secrets to hide from authority wandered the city after curfew, when the Cyrra-nova dwarf star cluster was hidden behind the smaller of Cybertron's moons. Approximately a third of each orn was considered out of curfew hours; if a mech was caught in the streets by the army after this time, he was fair game to be accused of counter-government espionage and perfectly liable to be interrogated by the Emirate's special team.

Returning miraculously unscathed, Optronix had found his mind was already made up. He did not remember ever thinking the situation through while he was traipsing morosely through Iacon's streets and back alleys, drooping slightly from lack of recharge... but then, there was only really one choice to make.

Fumbling clumsily against the control panel, weariness hampering his normally-agile fingers, Optronix activated the compound's emergency communicator and called an immediate summons to Emirate Xaaron.

oOo

"This had better be good, Optronix," Xaaron warned, the tone of his voice promising a world of beatings if the young archivist could not supply an adequate reason for dragging him from his downtime. Behind the golden body of the city official, which gleamed even in the half-light of the nearly-empty conference room, Reverence's dull, non-reflective black form seemed unimpressive and nearly wraithlike.

Like his master, Xaaron's protégé Reverence seemed sluggish and tired from having been disturbed from his recharge. Unlike the Emir, however, who was waiting patiently enough for Optronix' explanation, Reverence seemed already to have made his mind up; he was glaring at Optronix with such unforgiving hatred in his optics that the archivist was once again taken aback by the force of emotion the normally-deadpan politician could convey.

"If you would let me, Lord Emirate," Optronix murmured, tearing his gaze away from the thinly-veiled disgust in the black flier's optics. "I... would like to accept the Matrix."

There was a long, extremely uncomfortable silence, not at all alleviated by the blank stares that both Xaaron and Reverence fixed on him after his statement. Wary beneath the piercing scrutiny of the two political elites, Optronix squirmed inwardly.

It was almost a relief, though he was dreading any response, when Xaaron opened his mouth to speak. It came as no surprise that the Emirate, when the words fell from his lips, sounded more than a little bewildered. "... You want to _what_?"

"To... take the Matrix, my Lord," and the more Optronix said it, the more he convinced himself that he did not want to change his mind.

"Take it... where?"

Though it was hard to misinterpret Optronix' clearly-expressed intentions, Xaaron was doing his level best to provide an escape route and willing the archivist to accept it while it was still available to take. Optronix, however, by now had made up his mind. He had come this far, and would be damned to the Pit if he willingly returned to those bizarre, disturbing apparitions that had plagued his recent life.

"Er... In my chest, my Lord. As its bearer."

Xaaron, to his credit, managed to keep his composure well, his response limited to a slight grimace as he moved his hand up to massage the bridge of his nose. "You want to take the Matrix and be the next Prime, correct?"

"Yes, my Lord."

The Emirate's thumb and forefinger dug into his optic ducts slightly. Nearly unnoticed by Optronix, who was so closely focussed on the golden politician, Reverence sneered without bothering to mask the noise.

"Optronix..." Emirate Xaaron let out a world-weary sigh. "We are in a state of political crisis. I appreciate your determination to help but we, er, are looking for rather more _experienced_ leaders to volunteer -"

At least Xaaron was trying to deny him gently, Optronix thought to himself as he stood his ground. Most of the Emir caste would have smacked him in the face and told him to stop being such a pretentious idiot by now... indeed, it seemed that Reverence was itching to do that very thing. The young politician's purple-flecked fingers were twitching...

"I understand the responsibilities, my Lord, and I am prepared to accept them."

That Xaaron either did not believe Optronix was serious or did not believe he understood the heaviness of his words was clear. One optic ridge quirked, the Emir regarded the lower-caste coolly. "You were the one, were you not, who recovered the files on the mech rejected by the Matrix?"

Here it was. The wrath, if that was the correct word for it, of the Matrix was what, more than anything else, caused Optronix hesitation. "Citarex, my Lord. Yes, I recovered his record. He was burned alive from within over a period of three-point-eight orns." The very thought of it made the energon pulsing through his systems run cold with fear – but if Xaaron thought this would change his mind, he was sorely mistaken.

"You are willing to face the same fate?"

"Yes."

With one final sigh, Xaaron shook his head slightly. "... Very well. I will call a council meeting –"

"Please," Optronix interrupted, a haze of fatigue in his cerulean optics, "as soon as possible."

Unable to stand the breakdown of conduct any longer, Reverence sneered again. Optronix had been wondering when the younger, more impulsive politician would object. "Who do you think you are, bookkeeper," growled the black-bodied flier, "to call your Lord up from his recharge and demand he give you the holiest of relics? You should be executed for your insubordination! Be thankful that your Lord has agreed to humour you at all!"

"With all due respect, do you not win either way, sir?" murmured the archivist softly, becoming more than mildly irritated with his superior's open dislike of him; politicians were not supposed to show when they hated someone. "If indeed I am supposed to be Prime then my stepping forward now will save countless cycles searching. If I am not supposed to be Prime, well, you have made your opinion of me clear enough. I am sure you would relish seeing me melt."

"You impudent –" Reverence began, his optics flashing dangerously, but Xaaron cut him off.

"That is _enough_. It is unbecoming to carry on an argument out of petulance. You know as well as any mech, Reverence, that there _must_ be a Prime." The golden emirate sighed again. "If Optronix volunteers and is correct, then our glorious Autobot government will once again have a chance to survive the... _unexpected_ strength and coordination of the Kaonian rebels." Regal optics fixed the black mech. "Go and rouse the council... and a medic, just in case."

Chastised and smarting from the blow to his ego, Reverence turned on his heel without another word and swept away to carry out his duty. So belittled was he that he did not even bothered to spare Optronix a parting glare.

"There." Xaaron turned back to study Optronix calmly. There was a strange glint in his gaze. "You have permission to speak freely; I am sure Reverence's departure will make this easier for you. Oh, don't be an idiot," for Optronix had jerked and opened his mouth to protest, "it doesn't take a great amount of genius to see there is animosity between you. Now, please proceed to the council room – after you have told me this is about."

"About, Lord Emirate?"

"Don't play a fool, I know you are brighter than that. Why the sudden interest in the Matrix? I had you down as a quiet, solitary type. Not at all the overzealous, ambitious sort I would have thought would leap at the chance for leadership and power and glory, all that hype that surrounds the rank of Prime."

Studying his fingers briefly, some unrecognisable expression playing faintly with his lips, Optronix gave a slight shrug. There was something deeply unsettling about the thought of telling Xaaron he was seeing mechs who were not there, but nevertheless... "It is as it is written in the archives, my Lord. Nova Prime suffered visions too, did he not?"

Saying nothing more, he bowed once to Xaaron and turned, prepared to stand before the council and, unless he was very much mistaken, finally see if it was the Matrix tormenting him with visions or if his sanity was truly crumbling.

oOo

Only half the council assembled.

If he had been calm, Optronix would never have paid much attention to such a mundane fact, much less found it _funny_. As it was, he was unable to help a quirk of the lips despite the seriousness of the situation and was forced to hide his smirk behind his fingers. Only half the council assembled, and that was if he was generous and rounded the number up. If he did _not_ count the mechs who had shown up compared to the number who were supposed to gather on the full board. In all reality, about forty percent of Iacon's most senior governors had appeared to, if everything went well, see a new Prime sworn in.

Perhaps it should have been expected. Many of those absent were the governors of slightly older models, whose limb were beginning to creak with spreading rust and debris. Not even urgent news of a nuclear apocalypse could rouse the eldest of the governors from their berths once they had settled down for a recharge cycle.

In another, darker way, it highlighted the weakness of the ruling government. For such a serious, potentially world-changing matter, it was protocol for every mech on the council to appear. Anything less was insulting, both to the Matrix and the potential Prime.

No wonder Megatron had made such progress so quickly. The long era of peace had dulled the uppercastes' sense of responsibility. Everything was someone else's problem...

The Matrix was borne on a small palanquin by four menial labourers who were nevertheless held in high esteem and allowed decorative trinkets to garnish their figures. A streak of gold on the otherwise jet-black helm of each mech distinguished him as a respectable, though lower-ranked, member of the religious caste, dedicated to the service and care of Primus and his relics. The Matrix, of course, was Cybertron's most famous, most powerful, most important religious artefact, imbued with the essence of Primus himself.

Vaguely, Optronix recalled the huge ceremony when Zeta Prime had accepted the Matrix. For several days, Iacon had celebrated, descended into a drunken stupor as the planet around the city collapsed into civil war.

This time, there was no designated successor to the Matrix, and this ceremony – if it could even be called a ceremony, in the small joors of the cycle when most mechs were comfortably recharging – had not been planned and was hardly impressive. Most of the council had not even bothered to grace the occasion with their appearance, most likely because they thought nothing would come of it.

Optronix glanced towards the door he had entered by. There was a medic standing there, looking just as sleepy as everyone else. When he noticed the archivist's gaze, he shifted a little on his feet in a lazy gesture of acknowledgement, but did not otherwise move. The deep red cross that showed him as a qualified doctor glared out from the pure white of his base paint. It caught Optronix' stare for a moment in the dim glow of the council room.

Everyone thought he was crazy and that the Matrix was going to kill him. Why else have a medic on alert? Not that he could blame them, Optronix thought to himself with a wry, humourless chuckle. Visions? Hallucinations? They had not once in the records been the mark of a sane mech. _Especially_ not in the case of Nova Prime.

The Matrix' palanquin was reverentially laid down before Optronix, who stared at it blankly for a moment. Was he supposed to pick it up now and try, or wait for some kind of signal? Was there a ritual to perform first?

"When you are ready," said a voice by his audio. Struggling hard to suppress the jerk of surprise, Optronix turned his head to see Xaaron standing behind him.

"I just pick it up and put it in?" he asked, feeling somewhat foolish.

Xaaron's optics twinkled with amusement. "Yes."

Turning his attention back to the innocuous-looking Matrix, the sliver of light that was visible from within it swirling haphazardly, Optronix tensed and bent to reach for it. Though he was painfully well-aware of the gazes focussed on him, from the council and the palanquin-bearers and the medic who was probably by now preparing himself to rush a casualty to the repair bay, the young archivist ignored the piercing feeling in the back of his neck as his fingers grasped at the silvery handles.

Nervous and embarrassed at the sets of optics focussed on him, having never really been one to be the centre of attention (much less when his _spark_ was involved), he turned away as he parted his chestplates to insert the Matrix. As the artefact passed through the threshold into his chest, something that should have been the most public and celebrated of acts in the finding of a new Prime, Optronix was hunched awkwardly over himself, looking more like a stooping slave than a future leader – yet another of the irrelevant little details that struck his ponderous, fretful mind at exactly the wrong moment.

A soft clicking noise alerted the archivist to the Matrix' becoming secure in his chest and he hesitantly withdrew his fingers, half expecting his internals to melt right there and then. When he had pulled his hands full away and the Matrix had not fallen out nor burst into a raging ball of flame, he half-turned towards Xaaron for some guidance about what to do next. Surely that couldn't be _all_ their was to it... that was _far_ too easy.

The first wave of nausea hit, not entirely unexpected but still an unpleasant surprise, and Optronix lurched. His optics guttering out. At another violent upheaval of his tanks, the first droplets of energon sprayed past his lips and he brought one blue hand up in a dazed awe, touching his face and then withdrawing his fingers to stare at the silvery-pink fluid there as though he did not know what it was. Pressing one finger to his lips, his glossa flicking out to taste the distinctive tang of spent energon, only verified that he was rupturing internally... somehow.

Looking back towards Xaaron for guidance, the fringes of panic nagging at his processor, the archivist became more than slightly concerned when all he could see was a dimly-coloured blur that almost took the vague shape of the golden-bodied Emirate. A cry that sounded like Xaaron's voice reached his audios, but the words were made unintelligible, drowned out by a horrific-sounding gurgle that, under the circumstances, probably came from his own body.

As a burning rush of white-hot agony shot from the alien device in his chest outwards through the rest of his chassis, forcing him to his knees, another spurt of energon escaped his mouth, spattering loudly onto the burnished metal of the councilroom floor. The faint tickling on his faceplates indicated that he was bleeding from his nose too, perhaps also from his optics, though through the overwhelming, disorienting pain he could not really concentrate enough to tell. Was that energon blinking from the tiny ducts either side of his optics? Or were those tears of lubricant squeezed out with pain? Another stupid question that floated in his feverish processor as, vaguely, the heavy thud-thudding of footsteps told him that the medic was hurrying towards him, or perhaps it was Xaaron...

Falling from his knees to lie fully supine and then rolling onto his side with his arms clutched around his own torso, bent almost double with the pain in his chest and abdominal areas, it took Optronix some effort to turn his head toward the medic. Onlining his bleary, malfunctioning optics, he saw the dark sculpted face staring at him, the look in those deep optics so intense...

For but one precious moment, the gaze was so forceful that Optronix, just briefly, felt the pain dim. A part of his mind, the more rational part that was not half-crazed with his melting body, reasoned that it was probably because the medic had administered some sort of anesthetic and was peering at him so piercingly to see whether or not it had started to take effect.

Optronix accepted this explanation as the first twinges ricocheted through his worn-out limbs and towards his spark again. As the face drew away from his line of vision, he offlined his optics and tried to concentrate on anything that might take his mind off the throbbing in his chest. The one thought of dissent had to struggle through a cloud of uncaring thoughtlessness, yet it nagged persistently at his processor until he paid it attention... and it confused him.

For the face that was staring at him with the burning, unreadable optics that pierced him through was dark, like the deep metal of the haulage crates so often left around the docks, but other than the red that showed his rank, the medic had been fully white...

The archivist almost noticed his senses and his reactions dulling. The panicked shouting of the spectators, of Xaaron and the medic, had dimmed down into a perpetual background buzz, impossible for individual words, or even individual voices, to be picked out from the mess. Had Optronix thought to online his optics again, he would have seen the world in very dark, muted colours, tainted with blackness. A pressure on his shoulder which he thought had been his superstructure collapsing in on itself turned out to be someone's hand, attempting to offer comfort, though it took some effort to deduce that.

Delirious with the pain, which spread out in pulses from the epicentre of the Matrix in his chest, Optronix barely noticed the additional ache when his head hit the floor again with a loud clang. Somewhere from within his conscious, which was slipping away as though it were tar through a thin sieve, a voice he almost recognised as his own berated him for thinking that this was 'too easy'... _Nothing_ was ever allowed to be 'too easy'.

Mercifully, time stopped.

oOo

Optronix onlined his optics slowly and then promptly offlined them again with a groan. His body ached, and the bright white light of the Well of All Sparks did not help his poor head. Though he felt as though he was laying on his back, there was a heaviness in his frame that he did not recognise; it was most likely the gravitational pull from the centre of the Well, which had always been said to have a stronger hold on a mech than Cybertron.

He almost wished that his senses were still suffering from the Matrix' wrath. Sadly, however, according to the violently bright feed he had just received from his optics, and the clarity of the background noise he was receiving from his audio receptors, all his senses were just as good as they ever were – perhaps even better. While normally, the curious, studious archivist might have welcomed such a thing, he dearly wished that his optics were not good enough to pick up the strength of the light, or that at least he might have had some warning that trying to look at where he was would achieve nothing more than giving him one of the most processor-splitting headaches of his life.

"Could you turn down the lights a little?" grumbled the archivist to himself, feeling grouchy and churlish as he could still feel the residual aches from the torture that had killed him along with the growing ache in his head. All those religious types had told him that there was no pain in the Well. How wrong they had been! Dying had felt bad enough, now the very state of _being_ dead felt as though there was a Kaonian living in the sensitive circuit network just behind his optics. "It's bad enough that I'm dead without you blinding me."

"I can turn down the lights," answered the Well of All Sparks in a rather amused voice, "but I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you on the being dead part."


	4. Third

Optronix sat bolt upright as the lights were dimmed and, though the movement caused several suffering pistons to creak in protest, he ignored this and the light-headedness that accompanied the sudden, unexpected movement. Waiting an astrosecond or two to allow the mysterious voice to lower the lights, he onlined his optics, at first not seeing anyone.

"... I'm not dead?" he asked the air uncertainly, wondering if Primus had a sense of humour that was really so twisted.

"You're either not dead or undead," answered the same humour-filled voice, "and if it's the latter, then you're the healthiest looking zombie I've ever seen."

Optronix turned his head towards the source of the voice, seeing the familiar white frame of the council medic who had been appointed to oversee his acceptance of the Matrix. His mind still a little bit slow on catching up with quite what was happening, he had retorted before he could stop himself.

"You've seen a lot of zombies then, have you?"

"Oh, plenty," replied the medic airily. "Most of 'em the result of some wiseguy mouthing me off while I'm repairing him. It's so _easy _to slip with a wrench while performing cranial surgery..."

For a moment, Optronix gawked, thrown by the ludicrousness of the conversation after what had no-doubt been a medical emergency, the panic of which the doctor must still be recovering from, and completely unsure of a response.

The medic, seeming to sense that his patient was not entirely up to speed with the conversation, held out one red hand to lay on Optronix' shoulder. "The name's Ratchet. I'm Deputy Medical Chief of Inner Iacon, and the poor unfortunate sod who happened to be on duty when you decided to play with theology."

Optronix blinked his optics offline briefly as he acknowledged the introduction, with some small amount of guilt, but the small gesture of camaraderie succeeded in breaking the ice.

"So... uh," the archivist started, pausing as he realised how stupid he sounded but determined to find out what had happened nonetheless. "Why am I _not _dead? I thought I felt my spark melting, like the last mech who was not chosen..."

"Hmm. Well, I suppose the easiest answer to that is that the Matrix didn't melt your spark."

There was a silence that dragged as Optronix processed this information. "... So why was there pain, if it was not the Matrix killing me? I can't have survived because you took it out – it was removed from Citarex, and _he _still died in agony."

Opening his mouth to explain and then seemingly thinking better of it, the medic mouthed wordlessly for a moment, looking eerily like some sort of Guppybot as he was unable to find the best way to explain to his patient. With a final silent gulp, he finally decided on a course of action, flipping a panel on the room's internal computer to call up a monitor to show security feed within the private ward.

Optronix stared at the screen, which was showing live feed. As Ratchet moved, so did the medic on the monitor. But... the other mech in the room on the screen was one he did not recognise. The frame was broad, strong and imposing, exuding power and confidence. A battle-plate covered the lower face where nose and mouth should have been visible, and intense steel-blue optics bathed the dinginess of the medical berth in their pale light.

The young archivist raised one arm; the mystery mech on the screen raised the corresponding limb, completely in time.

"That's not me," he whispered, his calm but quiet voice betraying none of the fear and uncertainty that had taken root in his spark cavity.

"Ah, actually... I'm afraid it is." Ratchet managed to sound apologetic and businesslike at the same time. "I believe the pain that offlined you was due to the metamorphosis of your body to fit the requirements of leadership."

"There was nothing in the archives about this! This wasn't supposed to happen!"

Ratchet coughed slightly with embarrassment. "With all due respect, sir, all other Primes have been military-caste mechs, whether active or decommissioned, because the council deemed it appropriate. Even the Matrix' last choice, Nova Prime, was an army general, whereas you were -"

"- a glorified librarian," finished Optronix glumly.

" ... Not _quite _what I was going to say, but, in essence, yes. Your frame matched your purpose, and you were not built for military prowess. As Prime, however, you _need _to be militarily capable, and I think this is why the Matrix upgraded you."

"Hnngh..." Optronix raised his hand to his face and felt the solid, immobile metal of a battle-plate where once his mouth had been. Aware that Ratchet was still watching him somewhat worriedly, he did not let his fingers linger too long. "So..." he asked at last, feeling more than a little stupid and overwhelmed, "what happens now...?"

"You're free to go as soon as I finish running these last tests."

"Tests?"

"Mmm," Ratchet nodded towards the workbench to the side of Optronix' berth, which was covered with several scattered datapads. "I need to determine the extent of your new abilities in your upgraded form."

The fledgeling Prime shifted into a slightly more comfortable position to allow the medic to carry on with whatever examinations he still needed to complete. As he lay, his mind raced, piecing together the fragmented memories of the last orn, his imagination filling in the blanks from when he was unconscious. And... whether he had imagined...

"Doctor?"

"Yes Prime?"

Ignoring the tingles of discomfort that spread at hearing such a high honorific applied to him (after all, that would surely fade with time), the archivist lifted his head. Though the angle was slightly awkward, it allowed him to look down at the white-bodied surgeon, who was currently running scans on his legs.

"Did you have staff helping you look after me?"

Ratchet glanced up from his scrutiny of Prime's newly-formed powerful leg structure. His answer, when it came, was surprisingly (to the archivist, at least) defensive: "... Yes, I did. You _were_ out for quite a while."

"It's not an admonishment," Optronix spoke softly, as he realised that, with his new rank, some things he said might be construed as criticism were he to say them without considering how much tact he needed. "I was wondering... do you have on your staff a mech with a dark face? I regained consciousness briefly, I think, and I remember seeing him."

The medic stopped working entirely, a very odd and not at all readable expression creasing his stress-worn faceplates. "... I do not quite know how to phrase this," he began, his optics narrow and voice thoughtful, "but in Iacon, a dark face is not the mark of honour, Optronix Prime. It would be very rare for a mech with a shame-painted face to find a medical job. I would almost go so far as to say it was taboo."

Ratchet's words gave Optronix pause for thought. Though he had come online in Iacon and served there most, if not all his life, only rarely leaving on errands to the nearest city-states of Toor and Altihex, he had not once heard of mechs with painted faces being considered stigmas.

"Is this true of... _all_ Iacon?" he asked slowly, and was taken aback when Ratchet nodded.

"Yes... though I doubt it is the case in other cities," admitted the doctor, "one of the Capital's little foibles... any mech here with a dark-painted face is either a convict, minemech, slave or in disgrace. I do not know who your mystery face belongs to, but I feel – hmm, I _hope –_ it is little more than a hallucination caused by the shock to your systems during metamorphosis."

Optronix stayed silent, mulling the new information over. Taking his chance, Ratchet sterilised one of his less-deadly looking data-gathering probes and glanced back towards his patient. "If you don't mind?"

"Go ahead," replied Optronix, his mind elsewhere as he relaxed and submitted to testing.

oOo

Discharged from Ratchet's medical wing with a recommendation that he should head to the War Council within the main security hub of the city, and with no other guidance on what he should do under his new authority, the fledgeling Prime made his slow but steady way through the corridors. Though the route was unfamiliar, he had a feeling that he would become well acquainted with the winding turns and dingy, austere corridors before much time had passed.

Throughout Ratchet's examination, Optronix had questioned Iacon's stance on dark-painted faces; it was not something he had heard of before. How could it possibly work, he had asked himself, when, as he had seen in the archives, certain nobles from other cities had faces of dark hues, deep greys, blues, purples and the pitch of black.

It was exclusively Iaconian, Ratchet had explained, and had arisen from the appearance of mechs who had toiled in the once-rich mines just outside the borders of the old city. Though those mines had long since been dry, they had been notoriously contaminated with carbon towards the end of their run. Rare on Cybertron, the carbon compounds had stained the heads, hands and faces of the unfortunates who spent their lives mining energon, discolouring the once-pale metal black. The black faces, at the time, had quickly become a sign of a low-bred labourer, and the stereotype had seemingly taken deep root amongst the political and ruling classes of the state.

As for visiting officials... the doctor had pulled Optronix' attention to Iacon's fiercely xenophobic defending of its own borders against refugees and immigrants from all over the planet. Optronix had been aware of the tight laws, though had never been affected by them and had not given them much thought. All visitors to the city were turned away unless they were of noble, political or officiant caste, or certifiably authorised by one of those classes.

"What if a noble with a dark face wishes to visit, though?" Optronix had persisted. The doctor had given it some thought before answering.

"I imagine that they would temporarily paint over the colour of their face. That way, they would respect the traditions of the city, just as Iaconian officials are expected to respect the traditions of cities they visit. That's the essence of diplomacy, isn't it?"

Troubled, Optronix had shrugged. He had thought of the ruling system as corrupt even when he had kept books at the trading docks. Learning of this ugly undertone that only the political and financially elite were aware of only hardened his resolve that, revolution in the south or not, change was _needed_.

Whether or not such change was _possible_ was another question entirely. A law to prevent discrimination was easy enough to pass, he supposed, now that he was Prime, but changing the views of mechs who had believed something so solidly for so many vorns... _that_ would be near impossible.

Optronix pressed the keypad to the War Council room and crossed the threshold to a barked 'Prime on deck!' from the black-and-white bodied mech standing next to the commander's podium. Immediately, everymech present leapt to smart attention.

"Er -" began the young leader, momentarily taken aback. It took him a brief flicker before he remembered that these smart soldiers were waiting for his word. "At ease..."

"I was informed of your arrival by the resident doctor," said the mech who had spoken previously as the other soldiers wordlessly returned to their jobs. "My designation is Prowl, and I serve as military sub-commander and tactical aide to the Prime."

"Good to meet you, er, Prowl." Optronix held out his hand, which was accepted by Prowl in a reluctant grip that was brief but firm. "You were Zeta Prime's military aide?"

"Sir, and Sentinel Prime's before him."

Ah yes... Optronix had recalled reading something about a gifted strategist called Prowl in the datatracks recording the first alerts of the revolution and the eventual downfall of the peacekeeping forces in Kaon. In the Prime's absence, Prowl had acted as the leader of the security detail.

"Will you be able to fill me in, then? I, er, am a little new to this."

Prowl's face crumpled briefly in an expression that was all-too-easy to read. Optronix could almost feel the dripping disgust at how impractical it was, at the brink of a crisis, to have a military leader who had not even once stepped into a training session. In an instant, however, the emotion had passed as though it had never been there, and there was no sign of it in his voice, which was brisk, clipped and professional. "Of course."

With a nod indicating the remaining mechs in the room, Optronix spoke again. "I wonder if you might start by introducing me?"

Prowl nodded silent agreement and indicated the first mech, who was busily surveying several flickering consoles, seemingly all at the same time, "Red Alert, domestic security chief," to a stern, tough-looking mech, "Blacker, my hand-to-hand specialist," to a huge black mech, "Grandus," and finally to the red, blue and white mech poring over datapads in the furthest seat away, "and Ultra Magnus."

Optronix nodded to each mech as they were named, and each returned the gesture, Red and Magnus doing so while hardly glancing from their work.

"They are good, skilled mechs," Prowl commented, "and well-trusted."

"I do not doubt your team," replied Optronix quietly. "You all have much more experience than I, and I am sure you are all competent."

Brushing aside the compliment, Prowl picked a datapad from the desk. "I suggest, sir, that you allow me to continue commanding this unit until you are completely confident in your new position."

The new Prime nodded his consent, having been about to suggest exactly the same thing.

"I have orders from Emirate Xaaron in the meanwhile," continued Prowl, "that he wishes to see you now that your acceptance of the Matrix is completed. He has had a committee visit this past cycle, but he informs me that he is ready for audience the rest of the orn."

"I understand. Thank you, Prowl."

oOo

Every time Optronix entered Xaaron's office itself, which, in his position as a humble archivist, had not been that many times, it had looked huge, imposing and grandiose. As he stepped in this time, the decorated and gaudy room, mostly coloured in the same dazzling gold that dominated the chassis of its occupant, seemed smaller. It took a moment for Optronix to remember that it was probably because he was taller than the last time he had been in the room. Another thing about his new body, he supposed, that he would have to get used to.

"Ah, Optronix, welcome." The Emirate rose from where he had been sitting at his desk, which was just as large and over-the-top as the rest of his office. "I trust you are feeling better?"

"Much, thank you for your concern, Emirate."

The Emirate settled his chin upon his steepled fingers. "Or, should I say, Optimus Prime."

As with far too many things recently, it took a moment for the new Prime to notice. "... Optimus?"

"The committee decided upon it this cycle gone. Congratulations."

"Er," Optronix's brow darkened in confusion as he wondered if he was missing something, "I'm sorry, but... why Optimus?" Unwelcome glimpses of a Matrix-vision of his old friend Ariel in a violated form calling him by that same strange name flickered before his gaze. Of course. He should have seen it coming.

Xaaron shifted, staring at Optronix thoughtfully. "Your previous designation, Optronix, is indelibly ingrained within the archives as a bookkeeper and, forgive me for putting it so crudely, a commoner. While you have _my_ trust as the Matrix' chosen, doubtless the trust of many, including the soldiers who will now look to you for guidance, would be hard if not impossible to earn if it became knowledge that you were from a caste lower than their own. Thus, we on the council have decided it worthwhile to introduce you as Optimus Prime. It is now on the records."

Though he understood the logic behind Xaaron's choices, Optronix – no, _Optimus_, was more than a little put-out. "I appreciate the effort, Emirate, but I would rather have been consulted before this decision was made."

" You _were_ unconscious at the time. The medic said it was best not to bother you until you had fully recovered."

_I'm arguing with an Emirate_, raced through Optimus' mind, _and he's not berating me for it - "_would it not have been possible to wait until after I had recovered before changing my name?"

The Emirate paused, his optics flickering as though the thought had honestly not occurred to him. He even had the decency to look a little embarrassed, something that Optimus had never thought he would see.

" Never mind," sighed the new leader. "I suppose if it is on the records then this complaining is pointless. Let's put it behind us and start as we mean to continue. What do I need to know?"

His composure recovered with the swiftness only a politician could manage, Xaaron rose to his feet. "Actually, I called you here because I find myself with time this orn, and you need to know your way around Iacon's political hub if you are to seem the leader we need."

"A tour?"

"Precisely."

Xaaron moved around his desk towards Optimus, who tilted his head as the Emirate approached. "With all due respect, sir, I would have thought you would delegate being my guide to someone else, even if you do have time spare."

"If it were anyone but the new Prime, I would have done just that," responded the golden-bodied mech honestly. "However, the gravity of situation compels me to explain myself – I feel it to be more efficient. Already, one senator has lost his life to these rebels and another is missing, and that troubles me greatly. No, best not to waste any more time. We have lost enough with Zeta Prime's assassination."

_Zeta Prime_... Optimus had forgotten about his late predecessor in the stress of the tireless hallucinations and the subsequent accepting of the Matrix. "That reminds me," he said softly, turning with Xaaron as the Emirate indicated they should walk together. "I want to reopen the investigation into Zeta Prime's death."

"Whatever for?"

"Because..." he thought back to Perceptor's examination of the dead Prime's greyed husk of a body, "I believe he was murdered by an Autobot."

Xaaron sighed, his steps slowing. "... I fear you are correct," it was a weary, time-worn confession, "but I must heavily recommend that you leave his death be... at least for now."

"Why? Until the traitor is apprehended, there's no telling how many more mechs will die."

The Emirate's tone was patient, his optics calm but stern as always. "Zeta Prime was killed by an Autobot. Imagine you are an archivist again, Oprimus, and you have been told this. It could be your friend. Were you a soldier, it could be your bunkmate, your comrade-at-arms, your commanding officer... morale would be irreparably ruined."

Prime was about to respond when he realised the truth in Xaaron's calm words, and it deflated his built-up sense of righteousness. "... you're right." The quiet statement was followed by a quiet, derisive chuckle, directed at himself. "I see I have a lot to learn."

Xaaron's stern expression softened just a little. "I begin to see why the Matrix wished for you. You have very strong convictions. Zeta Prime... did not."

If Optimus wished to comment on this, he did not get the chance. Any words that started to escape his vocaliser were cut off abruptly with the creaking of a heavy, neglected door sliding back on its well-worn rollers to reveal the main mess hall, connected to the barracks of the city. It was yet another place that Optimus had never been. He had never had the need before.

The mess hall was big, but still somehow had the aura of cramped confinement. Perhaps that feeling was accentuated by the large number of soldiers going about their business sitting at the benches. Some were working, poring over datapads, while others were enjoying a small barrel of oil with their comrades, others yet were twirling practise weapons in the more spacious areas of the hall.

Several mechs glanced up as the door groaned open, most of them saluted briskly, but the two visitors were otherwise seemingly ignored. Despite appearances, however, Optimus could almost feel the alertness of the warriors awaiting an order, however quiet, from the Emirate.

Xaaron's nervousness was palpable. As a political elite, he rarely had need or want to venture to the rougher, messier military quarters of Iacon's citadel, and it was clear that he was not comfortable about being in this unfamiliar territory. Nevertheless, his professional, calm air remained with a practised ease.

"You will be served by Iacon's finest," he said to Optimus, who, glancing at many of the mechs in the hall, had to admit that they were imposing and very, very tough-looking. Not for the first time, he wondered at why the Matrix would choose a stylus-pusher instead of one of these battle-ready warriors, each of whom looked experienced, competent and more than capable of leading a battalion. "I wish to introduce you to one in particular."

Optimus nodded. His gaze had already been drawn to a mech standing alone at the edge of the room, isolated from his peers. Most of his body and face were hidden in the shadow and his optics were dimmed so as to give off hardly any light. A slight sneer twitched his lips every now and then, and the new Prime had no trouble discerning the negative tendrils of emotion that emanated from the solitary warrior.

It was not, however, this mech that Xaaron called over. Instead, answering the Emirate's order, a large, bulky, red-bodied mech strode confidently and saluted before the Prime and his political guide.

"This is Ironhide," Xaaron introduced the mech as Optimus found himself returning the salute almost automatically. "He is, I hear, a very able weapons specialist, and a very powerful fighter. Upon Sentinel Prime's deployment to Kaon before this mess started, he proved himself capable in commanding the armed forces in Iacon."

The new Prime held out his hand, which was swept up into a crushing grip, as different as it could have been from Prowl's brief, token handshake. "I am Optr – _Optimus_ Prime."

" Sure," grunted the weapons specialist, his expression somewhat dour. Optimus was not offended; he had yet to see proof that any of these soldiers were capable of smiling at all, let alone at a young, unproven leader.

"If I can ask you to take over from me, Ironhide?" the warrior mech nodded in response to Xaaron's gently-phrased order. "Very well." With an inclination of his head to Optimus, the Emirate turned on his heel. "I leave you in Ironhide's capable hands, Optimus Prime. You will not go far wrong with him guiding you."

As Xaaron took his leave, Optimus studied Ironhide closely. In his previous body, the warrior would have dwarfed him, both in size and strength. Now, however, the Prime stood at least a head taller than the red-bodied soldier, and he had a hunch that, should it come down to it (and probably after a little training) he would be able to beat the sub-commander in a fair one-on-one fight.

" So, er, how long have you been a soldier?" It was somewhat of a ridiculous question; most soldiers were conscripted straight after creation and spent their lives in the ranks, but Optimus was keen not to return to the lingering awkward silence that had drooped heavily in the atmosphere when he had conversed with Prowl. Any topic of conversation, no matter how frivolous, was better than choking uncertainty.

"'bout seven vorns? Give or take. Started as a security guard down at Altihex, was drafted into the Iacon Superior Fourteenth brigade of heavy infantry for the Borderlands War. Stayed in Iacon afterwards."

Optimus had not expected Ironhide to be so forthcoming. His first impressions of the mech, though admittedly from appearances alone, had been that the warrior was tough, gruff, and likely not to speak much.

"... A lot of experience, then. I see why you are regarded so highly."

"No you don't." Ironhide hardly moved, his optics staring straight ahead with a practised ease. "Don't insult me, Prime, if you please. You have not seen any of why the Emirate trusts me. Your lack of experience is pretty obvious. You've got a way to go."

… ah yes, and there was that awkward silence that Optimus had hoped he would not be acquainted with again so quickly.

"Er -"

Ironhide made a curious rumbling noise; it turned out to be a laugh. "We all have to start somewhere, Prime. At least you've got me to show you the ropes."

The new leader's optics softened in relief. "I'm glad, at least, that you are not as stoic as Prowl."

"You've met Prowl?" Ironhide's features darkened. "... yeah, he and I don't always see optic to optic. He's a brilliant tactician, though, don't get me wrong. I don't want to slander the mech. It's just he's not so brilliant when it comes to considering individual warriors as more than collateral damage."

Optimus nodded slowly. He'd got that impression from his brief meeting with Prowl, and it occurred to him that Ironhide might be a veritable source of information on the mechs he would soon have to work with. If he knew their personalities, their strengths and weaknesses, then it would be a great advantage when it came to a crisis situation. "What of those with him? I think he introduced me to... er... there was a Blacker, a Grandus, erm, Ultra Magnus and Red Alert."

Ironhide stroked his chin with thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. "Hm, well, Blacker's very good with an energy sword, but he don't talk much other than to his direct subordinates. I've never spoken to Grandus, but he's deployed as a mobile fortress. Red Alert is our security director, nice enough but a little prone to jump to conclusions if there's so much as a flicker on his screen, and Ultra Magnus is Prowl's lieutenant and a level-headed mech."

The welcome information was accepted and filed away within Optimus' memory banks for future reference. It was a start, and doubtless he would need it before long had passed.

He just so happened, as he was storing the new knowledge, to glance to the corner where that one mech had been concealed in shadow. There was no reason for the glance, no reason other than Prime wanting to look around the mess hall again to see what soldiers did in their downtime. He was taken aback to see that the mech was still standing there, in exactly the same brooding position, and even more taken aback that those piercing optics, glowing a deep, dark red, were staring straight at him.

"Who is that mech there?" Prime asked Ironhide, gesturing towards the corner. His hand movement, though subtle, was picked up by the mystery warrior and matched with an unchecked sneer.

"Which one?"

"That one over there, in the corner, with the... dark face." As he spoke the words, Optimus realised what had been bothering him. Though at first he had thought it was shadow, the light had shifted just enough to reveal a sliver of the warrior's face in the light – and it was deep grey, almost black. Recalling what Ratchet had said about Iacon's prejudice against mechs with dark faces, he wondered how such a mech had clawed his way into the citadel's inner defence force.

"Oh..." Ironhide's expression crumpled, more in confusion than any sort of ire or dislike. "I don't know him. I've not spoken to him at all. He keeps himself to himself, really, though I know he was hand-chosen by Zeta Prime to be in his honour guard despite having been demoted from Wing-Commander and branded a failure by the same guy. He's a flier and a loner and that's all I know."

Optimus stared at the mech a little longer, lost in thought. Unbidden, the memory of the hallucination given to him by the Matrix rose to the forefront of his mind. He could not be sure, however, despite all his consideration, that that face and this mech were one and the same. After all, the vision had appeared for but a brief moment, and he had been so surprised at the richness of the colour (himself having only seen pale faces, though after what he had learned from the doctor, this made sense) that he had not paid any attention to other features that might make the visage recognisable.

His gaze was matched by those intense crimson optics for several dragging astro-seconds. The train of thoughts was derailed, though, as those optics soon flickered, the mouth twitching in a snarl and the face snatched away from Prime's line of sight – as though the owner had remembered the mark of his shame and struggled to hide it from view.


	5. Fourth

Of all the warriors Optimus had met, each one had been battle-seasoned and capable, though many were more than frosty at the prospect of an untrained and untested leader. Ironhide was by far the mech he got along with the most, whereas there had been at least one notable occasion when the Prime had butted heads with Prowl over protocol. Tied down as he was by the amount he had to learn to become an effective Prime, Optimus had had little time to make the acquaintances of other mechs in his army, but he had every plan to do so. A strong working relationship between leader and warriors, he felt, was an important factor in the success of the army.

Ironhide had pointed out, quite accurately, that Optimus needed a weapon if he were to be a worthwhile leader. This had been something that the new Prime had been avoiding; he had never handled a weapon before, and did not want to make even more of a fool of himself than he already had by betraying his lack of training to the soldiers who were supposed to trust their lives to his judgement. Weaponry being an area that Optimus knew little to nothing about, he had asked Ironhide to accompany him to the main armoury, a hugely well-guarded stronghold deep within the bowels of Iacon Citadel's deepest spire.

Iacon's armoury, from what little unclassified data there had been in the archives, far outmatched that of any other city state, including, interestingly, the frequently war-torn states of Vos and Tarn and even the security nightmare that Kaon had become over the last few vorns. Of course, this was only counting those weapons that had been acquired or built legally; including offensives obtained on the black market would doubtless put Kaon head and shoulders above everywhere else because of the city's lucrative gladiatorial business and the heavy arms trade that accompanied such a pastime.

Nevertheless, as he stepped into the vast stockroom, Optimus could see why Iacon had often been cited as the power-house of Cybertron.

"This is phenomenal," he breathed to Ironhide, the weapon-specialist having entered the room just behind him, "there must be enough here to arm every mech in the city!"

"There is," Ironhide replied proudly, "and we estimate that, on top of that, there would be enough left over to arm half of the population of Altihex as well."

Optimus paused in his examination of a rack of plasma grenades. "Then... why have these not been issued to the civilians?"

"No order's come through."

"_Why_ ? The entire planet is in a state of Code 10 thanks to Megatron and his gang of thugs. Surely now is as good a time as any to make sure that innocent mechs can defend themselves? Surely these guns would be of more use defending the lives of the otherwise defenceless than sitting in here, gathering dust?"

Ironhide shrugged. "If no order's come in, then I can't do anything with them."

With a sigh of exasperation, Prime conceded. One of the first things he had learned about Ironhide in the short time since they had met was that the battle-hardened warrior was as tough and grizzled as a Gargantuan, and at least twice as stubborn.

Clearly the stockpiling of unused armaments was yet another point he would have to raise before the Grand Council, when next they met to discuss his plans for the future of the city. Certainly, he had already decided that there were many things, both insignificant and pressing, that he would do differently than his predecessors, hang whatever the Council thought of his actions.

"Well," Prime turned his attention back to the huge assortment of guns, explosives, mods and energy weapons. "I suppose we should do what we have come to accomplish."

Glancing back at Ironhide, Prime saw him still stood stiffly by the door, looking as though he was straining to hold back. "Oh, don't stand on ceremony," Optimus' optics twinkled with amusement at the ill-concealed pleasure that answered his words, "I wouldn't have brought you along if I didn't want your help and advice."

Immediately, Ironhide had launched into examining the arsenal, muttering a monologue to himself as he laid his fingers on each weapon in a brief touch that seemed to both gauge the abilities of each piece while paying respect to it.

" Hmm... a good range, but it's built for a gestalt and the knockback will leave you vulnerable for several demi-kliks... ugh, no, you don't want an energy sword, you'll be restricted when it comes to ranged combat... no grenades either, they're ridiculously inaccurate... _ah_, what about an ion blaster?"

"A what?" asked Prime, still trying to work out what Ironhide had meant by 'gestalt'.

Ironhide had in his hands a black blaster, from muzzle to stock about the length of Prime's arm. Its girth was not huge, but it was wider than the average rifle.

"It's a medium-powered assault weapon," the red-bodied mech explained, passing the gun over to Prime, who cocked it against his shoulder and squinted along the sights. "It's not got the greatest range, but there's hardly any knockback at all, and ion weapons have the highest power-to-mass ratio, aside from fusion weapons of course..."

The butt of the weapon was uncomfortable against Prime's shoulder. Perhaps, he mused to himself as he adjusted it to a slightly less-awkward position, his unease was due to the fact he had never been programmed to hold a gun. An archivist did not make a warrior, yet here he was, pretending...

" It'll do," he said to Ironhide. As far as Prime himself was concerned, a gun was but a gun, a device for defence and for taking lives of those who would take your own. It hardly mattered to him whether or not it was an ion gun, or a fusion, plasma or laser gun, as long as it would serve its purpose. It was mostly for this reason that he had thought to bring Ironhide along; Ironhide _knew_ which weapon suited which mech. Prime couldn't even begin to guess at the differences between each hunk of propellant metal.

"You look more like a Prime now," said Ironhide approvingly as Optimus slung the blaster into its holster. "Much more."

"If all it takes is a gun to look like a Prime," Optimus pondered sceptically, "then anymech could manage it. Hrn, I suppose I shall get used it soon enough."

Ironhide chuckled in his deep, slow voice. "Ain't nothing wrong with guns, some of them are beautiful. Just some of the slaghead upstarts who get one and think it makes them Primus, like those miners from the slums in the south. Can't expect a stylus-pusher to be comfortable with one straight away, though, I suppose."

Optimus studied his new blaster a little longer, a pensive frown marring that of his faceplates which were not hidden behind the immovable battle-mask. At last, after a klik or two of contemplation, he agreed quietly. "How true."

If he had a choice, he would have thrown the thing back into the rack it had come from. Looking at the thing had been fine enough, but holding it was firing off every nervous reactor in his body. It was all good and well to talk about issuing guns to those who had no other defences, but if _this_ was how they would react, or, in a worst-case scenario, if the power went to their heads...

Prime sighed again. Responsibility was proving itself far from easy.

oOo

Ironhide had proven himself a good judge of character when it came to Prowl, though the sub-commander's personality was not the _hardest_ to figure out. On the other hand, Red Alert was proving much more of a complex character. His unpredictability was rooted in his prompt switches between dry but light-hearted humour and a far more serious, waspish side that surfaced without seeming provocation.

The security director was, personality flaws aside, unrivalled when it came to keeping Iacon safe. By his own admissions, Red Alert (or Red, as he was known to his close peers), spent the majority of his time plugged in directly to the panning alert cameras, the feed from which was periodically logged, and deleted if there was nothing of incident, in his own memory banks.

Spending so much effort, time and concentration on the preservation of Iacon Citadel's safety, Red had little time for the, to him, banal escapades that his comrades pursued in their spare time, such as trips to the oil houses and walks by the pier. As such, Red had little in the way of social contact outside of those he was stationed with in the security hub, which was a very few mechs; Blacker and Grandus, though having been present when Prime first met Red Alert, were very much field operatives, and had only been in the office to submit reports.

Red himself had chuckled when Optimus asked if he ever felt put-out that his line of work meant he was not able to maintain many social contacts.

"What contacts?" he'd asked, his gaze only displaying a little of the distraction as he filtered several video feeds into his memory banks to check for discrepancies later. "Who's lonely? It's rewarding work, and I have Flame."

Ah, yes. Optimus had only met Flame once, but he was unsure what he felt about the eclectic scientist, who walked hand in hand with a guarantee for disaster. The red-and-yellow mech had a flair for the histrionic, and was almost excessively flamboyant in his mannerisms – and had the _worst_ track record in the entire city for scientific accidents.

It seemed an ill-matched pair, the orderly mech whose job it was to keep the peace and the unpredictable oddball who seemed to think it was his job to disrupt the peace, but Optimus had rarely seen a happier couple. One the one occasion he had seen Flame, the lithe fire-coloured scientist had been draped unabashedly, like a marionette with its strings cut, over Red's head and shoulders while the security chief had been watching the monitors. There had been quiet snippets of conversation, calm and subdued enough, before Flame had laughed near-maniacally, jerked himself up away from Red and sauntered out of the room.

"Oh, he's erratic and a little eccentric," Red answered airily when Optimus had asked him about Flame's strange personality and fascination with the far-fetched. "I'll admit that, but he's a good mech inside."

Optimus' optics had crinkled in a near-invisible smile at the trust in Red Alert's voice. It was a rare treat to hear trust in the tone of one whose purpose it is to expect the worst in those around him.

"You're deviating from the point, Prime," Red Alert pointed out with a knowing smirk. "You didn't come to visit me to ask about my private life. You've come because of the message, haven't you?"

" Perceptive as ever, Red," Optimus nodded, helping himself to a seat next to the security chief's monitor-laden desk. From his closer view of the other mech, he noticed that Red's normally pristine-white cheeks were slightly flushed, darkened towards the luminescent purple of energon. A twinge of worry nicked at the leader's spark. "... are you feeling well?"

"Hm?" Red Alert glanced at Prime, frowning slightly. His face turned away from the glow of the monitors made the energon flush on his cheeks all the more poignant against the perfect white of his chin and forehead. "Perfectly fine. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, er... no reason." Optimus shrugged his worry away, wondering if the energon flush was down to the impending video call he and the security chief had been instructed to receive.

The summons had come, quite unexpectedly, from the very outskirts of Iacon, a little message scrawled upon a crudely-made, functional but thankfully-disarmed bomb. Once again, the city had been thrown into a brief state of panic, but when it was realised the explosive was but a dud, attention could be paid to the message itself.

It had been an order from Megatron, or one of his lieutenants, demanding a video call to the new Prime. His conditions were simple; the signals would be scrambled so that the visual identity of each mech would be hidden from the other and so that the origin of Megatron's broadcast would not be traceable, and that there were to be no mechs present other than Prime and whoever was required to work the monitors.

As the message had demanded if its terms were accepted, Prime had ordered the release of a Flare Drone from Iacon to fly over Kaon. The drone, of course, had been tracked in Tyrest at Iacon's request, though had been lost from both visual and radar somewhere above the old security hub in the very centre of the lost city. Not long after, a missile had been sent up from Kaon and exploded harmlessly above the city, a sign that Megatron had received Prime's own answer.

So now it was that Optimus and Red Alert were waiting by the external call screens, each somewhat more nervous than he would usually be, for the static to flicker into a vague shape of a face, for the voice – whatever it may sound like – to greet them in some derogatory way...

"There's a signal incoming," Red informed his leader, his own optics clouded as he received the information feed. "Do you want me to attempt a trace?"

"No," Prime answered immediately. "I gave my word that we would allow them to remain anonymous for now. Besides, they're bound to be somewhere in Kaon, and whether they're in the pits or in the spires it doesn't change that we can't reach them there."

Red shrugged his acquiescence, fiddling with connections on the switchboard. "All right, I'm putting you through..."

The screen flickered once, the static morphing into the vague outline of Cybertronian head. Though the carefully-scrambled signal distorted any clear details, Optimus could tell that the head's owner, whom he was going to assume was Megatron, was a larger-than-average mech with a powerful build. The voice, when it came, was equally imposing, though some token effort had been taken to disguise it through an automated vocoder. It was not hard to see how such an impressive mech could have taken hold of the slum city so quickly.

"Prime, I presume," boomed that voice, so powerful that Optimus felt the back of his neck prickle. He glanced over to Red Alert, though the other mech's face was turned away.

"Megatron," he replied, determined not to show any weakness as he returned the greeting with stony calm. Megatron, the name behind the southern rebellion. Megatron, the figure whispered about by nobles in a terrified but yet disdainful awe, the mech responsible for the murders of Sentinel Prime, Senator Decimus of Kaon and countless others in both his revolt and his perpetuation of the illegal gladiatorial bloodsport. Megatron, arguably the most famous name attached to the most unknown face on Cybertron...

Thinking he was talking directly to such a mech made Optimus sick to his processor. "What do you want," he ground out, already regretting agreeing to this foolish contact with the Prime-killer.

" Temper, temper..." taunted the faceless Megatron, clearly enjoying having the upper hand. It was hard to imagine that this same voice had once belonged to a miner who, by all accounts, was barely learned enough to string two words together in a sentence. Megatron continued speaking, his tone light, as though he was presenting some hugely generous gift, "I have decided to make you an offer in light of the tragic passing of two of your Primes. I will allow you to negotiate your own terms for your surrender. Your authorities, of course, will be stripped, but I will _graciously_ allow you to keep your lives -"

Before he realised it, Optimus was already half-standing, outraged at the pig-headed audacity this murderer had to demand direct contact of Iacon's most esteemed mechs and talk of slavery and death. "Autobots will _never_ surrender to bullies or murderers!" he growled, his fists slamming into the desk.

"Your predecessor, Zeta Prime, answered the same, and he..." the swirling static purred, pointedly letting the sentence hang.

" I will warn you now, Megatron, I do not respond well to threats!" Optimus stared at the static outline, knowing already that he and Megatron would never agree. "I refuse to sit here and allow you to make demands of us – of free mechs who you would wish to enslave! - and threaten the lives of thousands just for your own amusement! This conversation is _over_!"

Megatron had the last word. When he spoke, his voice had none of the false joviality that had lingered in his prior statements, and Optimus had a feeling he was listening to the true Megatron – the cunning, ice-cold, brutal revolutionary who would see his ideals come to fruition or die trying. "We shall see, Prime."

The connection was terminated, though Prime was unsure whether it was Red or someone on Megatron's side who had cancelled the transmission.

Optimus sat down again in front of the monitor, though he was still silently fuming to the point that his hand was still curled in a fist at the thought of Megatron's words. How naïve he had been as an archivist! Reading of mechs who had committed evil deeds, he had always wondered if they had had their own reasons for their actions, that perhaps they were justified... but having spoken to Megatron, he was now of the opinion that some mechs were created callous and sadistic. Perhaps Megatron's crusade had started as just; Optimus was not aware of the conditions in Kaonian mines, but to threaten mechs with termination or slavery... no one had that right.

"He's not made any significant move against Iacon yet," Red grunted, his voice tight. "There have been skirmishes at the edges of Tyrest and Praxus, but little else. Prowl has suggested they are regrouping after their string of victories to launch a full assault..."

Prime stared at his own fist, the anger bubbling down into a simmering ire. "... was Zeta Prime contacted in this way?"

"Yes, he was."

"Why was I not told of that before I accepted this correspondence?"

Red Alert flinched slightly. Glancing at him, Optimus could see that the purple flush had extended almost the full way down his neck. "Prowl recommended we keep it quiet so that you would accept the exchange," he explained apologetically. "He personally archives all the data he can gather on Megatron and did not want to pass up the opportunity."

A sigh. "... I shall have to talk to him about this habit of keeping little secrets from me – are you _sure_ you are feeling all right?" for Red had grimaced and fallen forward to support himself against the table.

"I'm... fine," though it was spoken through grit teeth, and with a lot less conviction than the first.

Clearly not believing him, Prime tilted his head. "I would recommend, at least, visiting a medic once you feel you are done with your duties. If there's a virus, I would rather you work it out of your system before carrying on with your duties."

"There's nothing wrong with me -!" insisted the security director, forcing himself to stand upright again, his optics flaring out in a show of defiance even as the energon pulsing so dangerously close to his faceplating began to seep through the larger porous gaps, between his lips and from the corners of his optic cavities.

With a cry and a crash, Red collapsed forward in his chair and slumped out of it to the floor, an angry purple froth leaking from his mouth and his frame jerking spasmodically as his optics offlined in a flare of dying blue.

oOo

"He's stable," Ratchet said as he emerged from his surgery, wiping his energon-stained hands on an equally stained chamois. Behind him, through the gap between the door and its frame, Optimus could see several medics he did not recognise working around the supine form of Red Alert and only slightly visible, the brightly-coloured figure of Flame sitting next to his partner.

"Do you know what's wrong?" he asked quietly.

"As of yet, no. We'll get there, though." The medic sighed and shook his head, his gaze not unkind. "I should probably ask you to leave, however, even if you don't decide to listen to me."

Optimus' optics flickered. "Why? Red is my officer. I am concerned for his well-being."

Ratchet nodded, a slight smile twitching the lips of his haggard, tired face. "Yes, he's your soldier and you're worried about him, but you can't stay here for _every_ mech that comes back injured – and if you stay with one and not with others, then people will call favouritism."

The medic was right, of course he was, but Prime still didn't like it. It felt too much like abandoning a friend. He'd never had these sorts of problems when he had been a humble archivist; one example that sprang to mind was when a cargo crate had fallen on his friend Dion and seriously crushed his legs. Optronix, then, had been allowed leave to sit with his friend until he had been repaired and rehabilitated. Now...

"All right," he agreed reluctantly. "I want a full status report, though, Ratchet, every time there's any sort of notable change in his condition, and I want to know the instant that you find out what's wrong with him. If it's anything that's likely to be a threat to other mechs, then I need to know as a matter of security – not just as a concerned friend."

"Then I'll give you what I know now, if you wish."

"I do."

Deftly, the medic flicked out a datapad, tapping it with one finger at the points that interested him most, or seemed most unusual. "Simply put, from a preliminary examination, it does not look like any sort of contagious infection or battle-caused damage – the latter of which would have been unexpected, as Red Alert has not served active duty since the Cycle 7-5-XC-3 Borderlands skirmish in southern Hyorax, where he was deployed as -"

Optimus cut across the rambling doctor, "- sorry, Ratchet, I don't need to know his prior commissions; I doubt it has much bearing on the present other than whether it affects his ability to do his job." He didn't mention that he was supposed to, at that moment, be standing in a council hearing to discuss his future plans for Iacon (which had admittedly mostly slipped his mind in the furore that arose from Red's sudden deterioration), and that, concerned as he was for his officer's well-being, now that Ratchet had told him to leave, he did not have much time for trivialities. "The relevant facts, if you don't mind."

" - quite, other than a shrapnel injury to the head, his time served was unremarkable and without incident. As for now, I would suggest that his systems failure was caused by an internal contamination, either through parasitic organisms worming their way into his plating through a minor but untreated wound, or through oral ingestion of unrefined or poisoned energon."

"... you can't narrow it down any more?"

"Only to say it is very unlikely to be parasitic, as our preliminary scans found no signs of independent life within his body, neither organic nor inorganic."

Prime accepted the datapad from Ratchet and skim-read the swift report, not that he could make any sense of it; that which wasn't in the doctor's indecipherable shorthand was in medical jargon that the ex-archivist would have no idea where to start translating. Even so, he nodded as though it was clear as day, then passed the pad back to Ratchet.

"Take care of him," he asked softly, turning to leave for the council appointment he was already more than fashionably-late for.

Ratchet's expression morphed into a light-hearted picture of pretend hurt. "As though I would do anything less!"

"I trust you, doctor. Excuse me."

Out of the corner of his optic as he strode swiftly in the direction of the main council hub, Optimus could just make out Ratchet standing with his hands on his hips, shaking his head fondly as though his leader were some unruly youngling.

oOo

"Now that the Prime has deigned to grace us with his presence," spoke the High Chair Traachon sarcastically, "we may begin this meeting. Fellow chairs, have you anything to add?"

Optimus watched the ripple of non-committal grunts travel around the gathering of Councillors in the circular room, the middle of which was the elevated platform upon which he, as Prime, was obliged to stand. Around him, the chairs of the senators, the Emirs, the decorated generals and their aide-de-camps were arranged much as in the pictures he had seen of the gladiatorial pits, with the rows farthest from him the highest. Directly opposite him, the box of the High Councillor, a venerable and celebrated mech by the name of Traachon, and the High Justice, a mech named Tomaandi, who by all accounts was (if Emirate Xaaron's irritated ramblings were to be believed) a complete moron with nothing but monetary clout, stood out like an eyesore.

"This chair holds the Prime in contempt for his blatant disregard for protocol and etiquette," spoke up a voice from the lower ring behind Optimus, the less-senior of the councillors. The leader did not even have to turn his head to recognise that voice. It seemed that Reverence still had not let go of his unfounded hatred.

Traachon nodded once. "Sustained. Prime, unless you can supply an adequate reason for your tardiness, you will be held in contempt of council."

"In the duration of the correspondence with the rebel leader, Megatron, which I agreed to go through with after discussion with my sub-commanders, my security director was taken ill. I stayed until the medic was able to verify he was not in immediate danger."

"Is he a special mech?" asked Traachon, and Optimus felt righteous indignation rising within his chest. He pushed it down.

"Is not every mech a special mech, High Chair?" he asked rhetorically, amazingly managing to keep any emotion from his voice. "Even if I did _not_have the wish to make sure that my warriors are healthy and capable of their roles, I would have felt it my duty to make sure that whatever has struck my security director down is not going to pose a threat to those around him."

A heavy silence hung over the council room, a silence that dragged on for far too long as Traachon mulled over Prime's answer. At last, however, he nodded his approval, glancing to Tomaandi to confirm the High Justice's own agreement, and then looked back to Optimus.

"Sustained. The High Chair of this council finds Prime's reason and logic sound and overrides the demand by the junior chair that he be held in contempt for breach of protocol."

Prime did not waive in his standing to attention, even though the petty, immature part of him dearly wanted to look round and take in the expression on Reverence's faceplates. It would be a sweet, if meaningless, victory over the mech who seemed to have adopted him as some sort of personal foe.

"Now we come to the reason this council has been called," spoke the High Justice, Tomaandi. Compared to Traachon, who, though old and half-rusted, still held an air of power and wisdom, Tomaandi seemed small and insignificant. It was said amongst his supporters that this was because he did not like to intimidate those whose trials he presided over, and by his critics that it was because he was a weak mech, both in body and in mind. Rumours that he had accepted, and still did accept bribes, were common fare in Iacon's sub-spires. "Optimus Prime, you as the Matrix' chosen now have authority over the Iaconian armies."

"Yes, High Justice." Optimus inclined his head, his optics flaring.

"Iacon entrusts its military capabilities to you. The council, as per tradition, shall not interfere in your leadership of our standing army unless it becomes apparent that you are not acting for the good of our race, but instead to further your own agenda. Do you understand?"

_Like you interfered with Nova Prime by letting him do exactly as he pleased? _"..."

Tomaandi steepled his fingers, his gaze piercing and slightly disapproving, as though he could read Optimus' errant thoughts. "As of Zeta Prime's passing, and as per Sentinel Prime's last recommendations, the majority of our city's standing army has been stationed around the Iaconian border territories, which have remained closed as a matter of security. The rest have remained in the citadel to provide guard as we reinforce our buildings against all manner of issue weapons and improvised explosives. Do you have any objections to this?"

Optimus stood straight, his back stiff and his shoulders high. Cycling air through his systems at half his normal ventilation rate, he felt the moment in a strange, surreal elongated calm. From here, he would be able to make his voice heard, as a representative of the castes who had no representatives before Iacon's strictly upper-caste council.

"Actually, High Justice," he began, "I do."

* * *

**Note: **For Red Alert's side story, please read _Ghost Pepper_.


	6. Fifth

" The current military layout is unwise and _extremely_ isolating. It's all well in theory to focus on self-preservation, but if we ignore the global plight then, ultimately, Iacon will end up being flanked by Decepticon colonies. Our army is strong, but I would hesitate to call Iacon self-sufficient, and if the situation came down to a siege, then there would be little hope of salvation. If that were to happen, Iacon _would_ be overpowered."

Tomaandi stared at Prime sceptically. "You, er, have a solution to this hypothetical problem?"

Optimus did not miss the subtle emphasis on the word 'hypothetical'. He had not expected the council to accept his predictions immediately, but he had also not thought that the High Justice would be quite so open with his derision.

Unperturbed, the fledgeling leader carried on, "yes, I do. Firstly, it is my intent to proposition the council to open the border to refugees from other cities, especially the Southern states like Praxus and Tyrest. If we are to resist then any mech unwilling to submit to Megatron's tyrannical ideology will help us, and the influx of able and willing workers, whether or not the security situation diminishes, will greatly boost Iacon's export economy."

"Denied," came the immediate response from the High Council's box. "Open our borders and you will invite the rebels straight in."

Prime sighed with exasperation. As an archivist he had wondered if the elders were set in their ways, but now he was beginning to realise the truth: they weren't _set_, rather _congealed_. "Of course, I do not propose that border checks are ceased. Double the border patrols and tighten security scans of inbound mechs – rather that we pay closer attention to screening than we exclude those who seek amnesty and security simply on the grounds that they are not Iaconian."

Traachon raised his hand to silence Tomaandi's retort even before it was fully formed. "The High Council will consider your proposals for the change of border policy. However, your purpose at this meeting is not to challenge domestic protocol. Your responsibilities are over the military sector, _not_ the civil front. I understand the caste leap might be overwhelming, but do not forget your place."

Stinging from the unnecessary jab at his pedigree, Optimus let the barely-masked snickers from some members of the lower circles die down before he activated the holo-map of Cybertron that he had found convenient for military planning. It was a tiny yet powerful piece of hardware unearthed from the pile of maps and manuscripts left from Sentinel Prime's administration, small enough to fit snugly in the palm of his hand yet with enough processing power to project a map that was almost three times as tall as he was.

"I will withdraw the Iacon Self-Defence Corps," Prime said, his voice strong as his finger hovered over the large golden shape on the translucent map that represented the Iacon city-state, "and I will reassign most of the army to defend those cities that are currently most at risk, those being Altihex, Praxus, Tyrest, Uraya, the United Polyhexian Territories and the Nova Cronum Science Hub."

Immediately, the assembly room erupted into disarray.

"We question the tactical strength of your proposals," Traachon said above the cries and hubbub of the assembled council. His voice, though strong, was somewhat shaky, thrown, at least in Optimus' opinion, by the hitherto unheard-of suggestion that the Iacon Defence Corps could be used to defend anything except Iacon.

Optimus stood his ground. "Any other way, I fear, would be condemning the city."

The High Council held a swift whispered conversation, the sibilant hiss of their voices drowned out by the hundreds of other hushed voices that hissed in loose unison throughout the large chamber.

Finally, after what seemed like several long, dragging cycles but was in reality little more than a couple of kliks, Traachon withdrew his audio from where it had been placed next to Tomaandi's lips.

"If you proceed with this," the noble robot's voice was imperious, echoing through the room with a finality that was enough to silence the whispers of the lower benches, "then the council finds little option but to intervene."

Optimus had been expecting such a statement and already has his answer prepared. Coming from an archival background had its advantages; the new Prime was well-versed in the written laws of Cybertron and her primary religion, where other, military-caste Primes may have fallen short in their knowledge. "You, the Council, have no right to intervene. The only time the Council may override the will of the Prime is when the Prime allows his own desires to overshadow the well-being of Cybertron. You, as well as I, know that I am acting in Cybertron's best interests. To interfere with that is a blasphemy."

Traachon hesitated and Optimus knew he had won. At last, at _long last_, Iacon would be forced to stop caring only about itself to the point of calamity for all other cities.

"Very well," the high-ranking Councillor agreed after a dragging klik of consideration. The unease and more-than-slight indignation he felt at being overruled by a relative commoner was tangible in his voice. "We will allow you to implement your plan, but on the condition that if you fail, you will face dire consequences."

"Why?" Optimus asked, his near-inexhaustible patience wearing dangerously thin, "I do not recall reading about such limitations imposed on previous Primes. Dare I cite the case of Nova Prime, who was able to perpetuate a campaign of aggression unchecked that left Cybertron bereft of resources and half the cities levelled?"

"You have made your point," and it was not only in Optimus' imagination that Traachon's voice grated impatiently. "As stipulated, the High Council agree to the proposals you have raised in this meeting; whether or not they prove militarily sound, we will have to observe. Do you have anything to add?"

"Presently, there is nothing more I wish to bring to the Council's attention."

Briefly conversing amongst themselves in low, whispered tones, the High Councillors nodded and rose to their feet in near unison, perfected after vorns of ritualised practise. Traachon's hand pounded the metal of their dock and the sound, though quiet, reverberated powerfully through the silent assembly room.

"Fifteenth Quadrant Cycle, first formal meeting under Optimus Prime, resolved successfully. Council adjourned."

oOo

As an archivist, Optimus had never been much of a recreational drinker; energy supplies at the docks had always been depressingly low to the point of rationing, and, though the situation within the libraries was much less strict, he had never connected deeply enough on a social level with any of his co-workers to share a cube.

Never had he felt as desperately in need of a drink as he did after facing the uppercastes in their council. Feeling somehow more drained than he had even after facing endless restless orns of visions, the question of how a council of elders made up of three incredibly _old _mechs could be so exhausting flashed before him. Even backed by the contrary senators, Emirs and affluent flag-wavers, he had not expected it to be quite so taxing.

Weary and worn after the verbal to-and-fro, the young Prime found his (somewhat dazed) way to the mess hall Ironhide had showed him several cycles prior.

The council had adjourned at an unusual time. Normally finishing about the time of patrol changes and work relief, the controversies surrounding the new leader's proposals had dragged the proceedings to far later than was usually the case. As such, most mechs being on duty or enjoying their well-deserved downtime in their berths or out on the town, the mess hall was all but deserted.

Already a large room, the military recreational centre seemed bleak and cold without the hubbub of bodies and voices crowding its floors. The expanse of long empty benches made the two or three solitary mechs sitting there, lonesome and silent, seem all the more small and helpless.

Of the three despondent mechs in the hall, one already seemed to have drunk himself into a stupor; a cube of energon slightly to one side of his outstretched arm had been upturned, presumably a result of his slumping insensibly over the bench in front of him. Optimus eyed the pitiful sight disapprovingly before glancing towards the other two occupants of the darkened and otherwise-deserted room. One of the remaining two, the large, bulky figure nearest the door, seemed little better off than his comrade, staring blankly into a half-drunk container, his body swaying with all the inevitability of something that will not long remain upright.

The last mech, however, had not given himself over to the temptation of drunkenness and collapse. By the dim fluoresce of an untouched cube, the soldier sat impassively examining a long, thin-barrelled gun similar to many that Prime had seen in the armoury. The faint purple glow threw dancing shadows on the dark face, the only other light on which came from the strong, unfathomable scarlet optics, burning like twin embers on black coal.

Recognising the mech to be the same as he had seen while with Ironhide, Optimus found his curiosity piqued. The more he learned of the discrimination against dark-faced mechs in Iacon, the stranger it seemed that such a mech should be in the city's elite guard, even more so as an apparent chosen aide of Zeta Prime.

Fetching himself a full cube from the dispenser near the threshold of the large room, Optimus made his steady way over to sit at the bench across from the mystery soldier. With a withering glance, the intense gaze acerbically and pointedly sweeping over the rest of the mostly empty room, the winged warrior scooted a couple of seats down the bench away from the fledgeling Prime.

Not to be thwarted so easily, like a cyberdog with its teeth in a prized catch, Optimus slid along the bench. The look that came from those inscrutable red optics as the slender mech once again retreated could have corroded plate steel, but Optimus refused to be deterred – though perhaps under any other circumstances, he would have left a solitary soldier to his own devices, there was something about the open belligerence of this dark-faced mech that spoke like a challenge.

The shuffling retreat continued once or twice more before the dark-faced mech found himself pressed up against the wall at the end of the bench. With nowhere left to move to, and unable to extract himself from the bench without seeming ungainly (as it was a more than slightly awkward position he had worked himself into), he settled for glowering dangerously at his pursuer.

"What the frag is wrong with you, you deranged glitch?"

Stifling a chuckle at the unabashed hostility in the sharp voice, Optimus shrugged briefly. "Won't you talk with me for a while? You're the last one in here who looks capable of it." And, as though to prove his point, the mech near the door fell backwards with a crash; other than the transition from vertical to horizontal, there was no noticeable change in his position – the arm that had been nursing the unfinished cube remained outstretched, the fingers grasping at a phantom container.

The antisocial warrior was unimpressed. "So talk to yourself!"

Nevertheless, Prime did not move away from the reluctant soldier, instead firmly planting his cube on the bench and staring at it thoughtfully for a brief moment.

"I hear you are in the honour guard?"

"Well?"

"That's quite an achievement."

The dark-faced warrior regarded Optimus suspiciously for a while, as though trying to detect the merest hint of sarcasm, before grudgingly shrugging in somewhat-forced agreement, seemingly resigned to being talked to – though that did not mean he was forthcoming with his answers. "Yeah, I guess it is."

"And I'm told you were a Wing Commander before?"

A flicker of emotion crossed the dark-coloured face; a derisive sneer melted over the coal-grey lips, which curled back scornfully. "If you could call it that."

Optimus rested his cheek on one hand, his elbow on the bench. It was a position at ease, and, briefly, he wondered what Xaaron or Reverence of any of those elites would say if they saw their Prime composing himself so casually before a mere soldier. The thought gave him a tremour of bitter satisfaction, quite removed from the conversation. "You didn't enjoy it?"

"Enjoy it!" the mech laughed bitterly. It was not a pleasant sound. "Wing Commander of _what_? This city _has_ no aerial fleet! I could count the number of air-worthy fighters on the fingers of _one hand_! If this were Kaon -"

"You're from Kaon?" the young Prime asked in no mild surprise as his conversation partner broke off, looking furious with himself. The response, when it came, was defensive and prickly, as though challenging Optimus to make an issue of the fact.

"What if I am?"

"Are the rules about dark faces different there?"

For a moment, it was all the jet could do to splutter wordlessly. The question had clearly blind-sided him; Optimus knew he should feel guilty about springing what was clearly a sensitive topic on a mech he had only just met, but his curiosity, which had been burning unsuppressed since he had first caught a glimpse of this mech in the mess room, stemmed any embarrassment he might have felt.

"Dark faces are a sign of military achievement where I'm from," growled the warrior, a deep scowl on his face.

It tasted like a lie. Optimus did not answer.

Suddenly, the other mech whipped his head up to glare directly into Optimus' optics. "What's it to you? Why do you care!"

This time it was Prime who shrugged. "I meant nothing by it, I just think it unusual that Zeta Prime would allow a mech from the city he's at war with into his elite. He was nothing if not paranoid."

Once again, those searing scarlet optics stared straight through him for several astro-seconds past what was comfortable. It gave Optimus the strangest feeling that this mech was trying to look through him, into his processor, perhaps to see just how much he knew about Zeta Prime and his staffing choices. "... Yeah, I'm from Kaon. And no," he spat, as though disgusted by some sudden thought, "I didn't."

"Sorry - didn't what?" Prime was nonplussed.

"Meet Megatron. Kh, don't give me that look," for Optimus was staring as though the dark-faced warrior was some sort of mind-reader, "it's what _everyone _asks!" Apparently aggravated by this, the flier put on a mocking, cruel parody of Prime's voice, "_Oh you're from Kaon, you must know Megatron_ – there's close to a hundred thousand mechs living in the city, not all of us have the _privilege_ of being Megatron's lapdogs!"

Tirade finished, the soldier settled for glaring heatedly at his cube as though daring it to disagree with him. In the quiet that followed, Optimus, who had been quite taken aback at the outburst, coughed awkwardly.

"Er... sorry," he murmured, unsure entirely why he was apologising. True, he _had_ been on the verge of asking that same question, but the Kaonite could not have known that for certain; Optimus could easily have presented himself as affronted, demand the flier retract unfair accusations... He chose to admit he was in the wrong.

One blue hand waved airily at him and, though there was no verbal confirmation, it seemed that – for now, at least – he was forgiven for his hypothetical trespass.

The moments dragged on in tense, awkward silence; Optimus could think of nothing to say, and the red-eyed warrior seemed to have no inclination to restart their (admittedly somewhat one-sided) conversation. Drawing blanks, the Prime was on the cusp of admitting defeat and taking his leave when his quiet companion stuck out one blue hand in a wordless, jerky gesture.

"Er...?"

"Starscream," grunted the jet, not looking at Optimus directly but twitching his fingers a little, his hand remaining lazily outstretched.

"Oh!" Optimus took the proffered hand and shook it firmly. Though he grasped his fingers around Starscream's, the gesture was not returned; the other hand (a lighter shade of blue than his own) remained limp in his grasp. "I'm Optimus." He hesitated. "I suppose – Optimus Prime, that is..."

For a moment, Starscream's hand stiffened in his; it felt as though it had tried to clench into a fist. For one lingering moment, a dark, shadowed look crossed the deep grey face. However, before Optimus could register it fully, the expression had been wiped away, the unreadable, inscrutable mask firmly back in place.

"Guess you're the new boss then," the warrior commented airily, pulling himself back from the handshake, which had become awkwardly prolonged as Optimus tried to work out whether his mind had been playing tricks on him. "I'd heard rumours a new Prime had been chosen."

Optimus frowned slightly. "You hadn't been told outright?" he asked in surprise. "I thought everyone would know by now."

"Hah!" Starscream snorted and then laughed outright, though it was cold and mirthless. "The Senate and the Council, the under-generals and their sub-commanders... they know, of course, and anyone you've personally told. We of the rank and file? Who cares to tell _us_?"

"But I -" The Prime shook his head and started again, trying to ignore the discomfort of passively admitting to Starscream that he had asked about him. "I thought you were a member of the elite guard? That's what I was told- "

Starscream threw a sly, calculating sideways look at Optimus. "... You're not a high-caste or a military mech, are you?" he asked wryly after a moment's surveying his new leader.

Prime chuckled his own humourless laugh. "Well – no," he admitted, "but even so -"

"We're the elite, yes," Starscream cut across him unabashedly, "but we do not need to know until it is deemed worthwhile. It is our job to guard, not to know." He threw another unsettling look at Prime. "Not that Sentinel or Zeta ever needed guarding. They could hold their own in a fight. Not so sure about you, though."

"Surely it would be more beneficial to keep everyone up to da- _excuse _me!" Halfway through his retort, Optimus registered what Starscream had said to him. When he looked again at the jet in astonishment, there was a cheeky, but not malevolent, glint in those bright scarlet optics.

Starscream looked Optimus up and down again appraisingly. "Sentinel Prime and Zeta Prime were both trained warriors who could easily hold their own against a full gang of lesser mechs. You – you're big enough, certainly, and it looks like you'd be powerful enough, but you don't carry yourself like someone who properly knows how to use their body as a weapon."

Optimus stared.

"Er – you're very, uh, observant," he managed weakly.

To have Starscream guess so accurately that his background was not pedigree was more than a little unnerving. Following the suggestions of many of his closet counsel and advisers, including snide hints from Prowl and a very blunt statement from Emirate Xaaron, Optimus had agreed that his previous occupation should be kept, as much as possible, secret. Of course , it was inevitable that most, if not all, of the soldiers knew that he was untested; the Iacon Defence Force was close-knit and quite insular, and were not keen on an outsider who had no experience with them taking the mantle of Prime. However, most of them, according to Ironhide, would assume that he was simply a military mech from a different city.

The physical changes the Matrix had bestowed upon his body were more than enough to disguise him from recognition by those rare few mechs who had known him as Optronix (that number was _extremely_ small and none of them had known him by name, rather by sight alone), and, though he was far from ashamed about being a bookkeeper, he was extremely keen to hide that fact. If it were to become common knowledge that, during what was easily the most sensitive and volatile political environment in any Cybertronian's living memory, the leader of the most powerful military on the planet had no military experience nor training and had never once been in a fight, it seemed doubtless that the army would cease to obey. There would be splinter groups, power-grabbing by the sub-commanders, infighting... and Iacon would fall. Innocent mechs would suffer under Megatron's cruel regime of tyranny.

Starscream was watching him with a vaguely unsettling smirk; it seemed he had realised his knowledge (whether it was accurate guesswork or informed deduction) had been correct and an unwanted surprise to the new Prime. Optimus met those glimmering red optics, uncomfortable but stern, not wanting to yield more than he had. He was not yet sure he trusted Starscream, as he was convinced that the jet had already lied to him at least once, and he thought more than twice.

"Heh," his expression worryingly unreadable, Starscream snorted to himself and looked away. Before Optimus could comment, he caught a flash of red moving in the otherwise eerily still, darkened mess room.

It was Ironhide, striding quickly towards the bench that Starscream and Prime sat at with a look of irritated, determined purpose on his faceplates. Optimus felt the spark sink in his chest – was something wrong?

"What – the – _frag_ – you doin' here!" demanded Ironhide as he drew level with Optimus. "You can't just disappear without letting anyone know where you're going! _To attention, soldier_!" he added in a sharp bark to Starscream, who sprang up off the bench and saluted neatly, though not without a sulky glare at Ironhide.

"What are you doing?" asked Ironhide again, this time to the stiff-backed warrior, who stared back unflinchingly.

"I was havin' a drink," he replied petulantly, "_Sir_."

Ironhide regarded Starscream with something that resembled mild dislike and deep mistrust. "You are dismissed," he said at last, still staring suspiciously at the jet. " Return to your barracks."

Starscream saluted sardonically, turning on his heel and striding out of the large room. Ironhide watched him go, shaking his head slowly.

"And you!" he said suddenly, whirling on Prime as though he were a misbehaving labourer. "What the _slag_ were you thinking?"

Prime raised his hands disarmingly, cowed under his subordinate's lashing ire. "I just... fancied a drink..." he mumbled lamely. The absurdity of the situation struck him from the blue; how many other Primes had allowed lesser mechs to berate them, to chastise their actions? Perhaps if he had been Sentinel Prime or Alpha Prime or any of the others, he would have imprisoned Ironhide for even daring to criticise him – yet here he was, apologetic and stumbling over his words as though he had had no right to come in to his own mess hall. It would have been amusing, if it was not yet another highlight of how much he still had to learn.

"Tell someone next time!" Ironhide sounded half-exasperated, half-amused. "Prowl's doing his nut. With Red Alert still in medical, he's had to check all the monitors himself and it don't agree with him. He's half-convinced you've been murdered, and I think he's ready to murder you himself if he sees you alive in the next few cycles. Wonder if he's inherited Red's paranoia through the computers?"

The red warrior's voice had diffused from irate to grudgingly humoured. Prime shrugged awkwardly, saying truthfully, "I had assumed you would all be in recharge."

"Prowl was expecting to be debriefed after the Council meeting."

"Why?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

Ironhide sat down where Starscream had been before and looped his fingers around Prime's cube of energon, which had hardly been touched, and tugged it towards himself. "What were you talking about with that mech?"

Prime watched as Ironhide drank the entire cube's worth of energon in one huge gulp. "Nothing really, just chatting."

"You want to be careful of mechs like that," Ironhide pushed away the empty cube container and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand as he spoke the words of warning. "They'll only try and get close to you for your power." The weapons expert picked Starscream's untouched cube from the bench and swallowed half easily.

Optimus watched his friend finish the second cube, thinking. No matter what Ironhide said, the look on Starscream's face when he had learned the identity of the new Prime seemed to have been anything _but_ opportunistic.

The thought weighed on his mind as Ironhide reluctantly placed down the second empty cube and suggested the pair go and inform Prowl that Prime was not dead before the sub-commander, rather colloquially, "did his nut".

* * *

**Note:** Hahah so this took way longer than I expected to write. For some reason I hit a major block as soon as Starscream actually showed up (and other stuff like studying got in the way hurp durp). I'll try to be more prompt with the next chapter.


	7. Sixth

The passing joors had sent Optimus good, bad and unexpected news. An example of good news was that Red Alert had finally been discharged from Iacon's intensive care facilities; an example of the bad was that his ordeal had caused him such psychological damage that he was no longer fit for the duty of security chief. Stuck for an alternative, as there was really no other agent who was of quite the same ability as Red, Optimus had no choice but to temporarily assign security responsibilities to Ultra Magnus, either until Red recovered enough to resume his duty or until a better alternative presented itself. Though Magnus was a stolid, reliable mech, and the most suited available mech for the job, it was clear that he was not purposed to sit and endlessly filter through camera feeds.

So far, rebel action had been rather subdued outside the expected skirmishes in the borderlands surrounding Kaon. Praxus, the southernmost stronghold to announce its allegiance to the central Autobot government in Iacon had experienced some minor attacks, mostly small explosive charges or scant groups of few gunmechs firing randomly at the well-protected buildings. There had been negligible damage.

More seriously affected were Tesarus and the Crystal City, both of which were southern neutral states. Tesarus, while large enough to host its own standing army, had aggressively enforced a policy of neutrality, driving out any mechs who expressed sympathies to either side in the conflict. Naturally, this resulted in an influx of rebel-sympathisers seeking refuge in Kaon and revenge against the city that cast them away. Barely an orn went by without a report of some hostile activity in Tesarus by some malcontent, yet the state still remained firmly neutral.

On the other side of the scale was the Crystal City, a little further north than Tesarus and a city comprised mostly of civil scientists and manufacturers of goods and materials for use in the facilities at Altihex and Nova Cronum. While there had certainly been more activity there than at Praxus, it was nowhere near the extent of violence at Tesarus, and the main casualties were several crates of raw parts which had gone missing.

Prime would not have unduly concerned himself with the affairs of the Crystal City, particularly when measured against Praxus and Tesarus, if it had not been for the state's importance to Altihex. Altihex itself, like the Crystal City, was neutral territory, but it was also one of the two largest science hubs on the planet and was considered the primary base of operations for many of the Autobots' top-ranking scientists and medics. It was not surprising to Prime, therefore, when Ultra Magnus reported that he had received a transmission from Altihex requesting a meeting. What _was_ surprising was that this meeting had apparently been requested by Altihex' highest-ranking mechs and that they had stipulated, on no uncertain terms, that they wished for Prime to come alone.

It went without saying that Prowl had protested this course of action as vehemently as his position as Prime's subordinate would allow, and Prime had at first been inclined to agree. It seemed foolish to venture alone to neutral territory that shared so close a connection with a potential seat of unrest as Crystal, but the Altihexians' calm reasoning had changed his mind. The scientists had astutely pointed out that a Prime entering Altihex with a military entourage could at the very best be seen by the rebels as Altihex announcing Autobot allegiance and at the very worst by the Altihexians as an invasion. Prime saw the wisdom in quietly entering the city, going about whatever business was needed of him and leaving without drawing undue attention to himself.

Prowl, as sub-commander, was given the highest authority for the time Prime was away from Iacon. Though he did not necessarily agree with Prowl on moral issues, Prime could appreciate the skill that his subordinate possessed and the experience which had tempered his decisions, making him the most capable mech for the position. While, on a personal level, Prime may well have preferred to leave a mech more like Ironhide covering his role, there was much to be said for the ability to disassociate emotions and logic, even if Prowl _did_ take that to an extreme.

And then on top of the scurrying to organise the Altihex venture, as if Prime didn't have enough to worry about, there was the nagging preoccupation with Starscream. The dark-faced flyer, who seemed to alternate moods so often that Prime questioned whether he was glitched, periodically disappeared for breems at a time, showing up again in the most unlikely places with the most bizarre excuses. Some orns prior, he had gone missing for half an orn, eventually showing up in the senators' private events room with the rather poor excuse that he had lost his way.

Starscream and his eccentricities, though, were the lowest of his priorities, despite how fascinating the young leader continued to find the surly warrior with the piercing crimson optics.

oOo

The Altihexian landing strip lay outside the boundary of the city in a monitored, restricted area. Owing to the high concentration of volatile substances in the scientific buildings dotted around the main complex, the airspace directly above the city was a permanent no-fly zone.

Whereas it meant Optimus had to land his cruiser expecting to see the squad of armed bodyguards that was normally there to greet him on diplomatic assignments, he was surprised to instead see only one mech – the unlikeliest of mechs – standing there.

"Perceptor!" he gasped, staring at the self-made noble, "why are you -"

"I wanted to congratulate you personally," explained the microscope in his quiet, matter-of-fact voice, holding his hand out. Optimus shook it firmly, wondering at how relaxed Perceptor sounded compared to the last time they had spoken. Perceptor released Prime's hand as he continued his explanation, "and to inform you, of course, mostly as a formality, that any gagging order I placed on you concerning facts on the death of Zeta Prime is now at your discretion."

"You could have told me that when I met you in the hub," Prime answered quickly. Perceptor chuckled, far more at ease than Prime could ever remember.

"Yes, yes. Just as perceptive as I remember you. Very well, I wished to reacquaint myself with you now that you are the new Prime, and I thought that the best way to manage this was to walk with you to the complex. We will, of course, be working in rather closer proximity, and, I confess, the ties between the military and the scientists has been somewhat strained because of our lack of ability to quite see optic-to-optic with your predecessors."

Prime, taken aback at this honest admission, found himself at a loss for words.

"I admit," continued Perceptor, now looking a little more uncomfortable, "that I tend to find myself often with little spare time, and more often than not surrounded by others who require my attention. It is a rare opportunity that I will be able to have a private conversation with you, and certain, ah, legacies from your predecessors, I fear, require such privacy. I have no wish to speak ill of the dead, but there are certain realities I must bring to your attention that I doubt very much you wish to hear."

Optimus' optics flickered briefly as he stared at the scientist; he had never expected to hear such uncertainty in the normally quiet but assertive voice he had associated with the coroner who had examined Zeta Prime, and it was with a worryingly familiar sinking feeling that he processed what had been said.

"... If I don't want to hear it, can you just not tell me?" he attempted weakly. Perceptor did not laugh.

Instead, flashing Prime a slightly disapproving look, he nodded towards a stretch of open, empty track that led away from the landing strip and the main Altihex complex. "We should not talk here. Please, join me for a walk."

oOo

The tapering spires reached up, the tallest nudging far higher than any building Iacon could offer. In the centre of this weird, twisting skyline there was a momentary break, which marked the placement of the administrative buildings of Altihex' science hub, arguably the most famous research facility on Cybertron – even compared to Nova Cronum. Behind the expanse of city, there lay the Rust Wastes, said to cover almost a third of the planet in a vast barren landscape of nothingness. A single straight bridge stretched out over the wasteland, disappearing into the distance.

"That is the Crystal Parkway," explained Perceptor as he caught Prime's quizzical glance at the bridge, for it looked so out of place. The scientist had become noticeably more at ease as they left the main hub behind them. "It is a direct connection between Altihex and the Crystal City. There was considerable resistance, unless my memory is defective, but upon its completion most of the Altihexian uppercaste realised the economic necessity of a supply artery to a such a successful state as Crystal."

"It is primarily for the uppercastes?"

"Primarily scientific," corrected the microscope.

"And the nobles do not mind sharing space with you?"

"Most of the time are able to see past our differences, but there are occasions when we have our altercations with our wealthy neighbours. Normally they only complain when one of our mechanimal experiments escapes and starts tearing mechs limb from limb."

There was an awkward silence.

"That was a joke," said Perceptor, not without reproach.

"Er – oh, it was? Er – ahahaha," the Prime laughed weakly, unconvincing and far too late.

Again, the two mechs were choked by the awkward silence which was broken only by Perceptor's embarrassed cough.

As they quietly passed what seemed to be one of the sliproads to the Crystal Parkway, Prime spotted what looked like a small meeting of aristocrats gathered together. Glad of the opportunity to divert his attention from the uneasy silence, he examined them as closely as he dared without being openly rude. Each mech was polishing a tapered, antique-looking rifle, though the guns appeared far too weak to be able to puncture through Cybertronian exoplating.

"Foxing guns," explained Perceptor in response to Prime's quizzical look. "They are powerful enough to kill most wildlife locally but should not harm a mech past a superficial burn."

One of the nobles, catching sight of Perceptor, inclined his head sharply in acknowledgement. The others glanced up but gave no sign they had noticed the microscope and his companion; nevertheless, to have been greeted by even one of the haughty uppercaste was a sign of Perceptor's local celebrity and prestige.

"The hunts don't bother you?" asked Prime mildly. He had heard thin rumours of mechanimal hunts when he was an archivist, normally when jealous, over-worked labourers were bemoaning the easy lives of the high-bornes, but he had never before had reason to give the activity much thought. As his gaze lingered on the nobles who were about to embark on this pastime of privilege, he was struck by the pointlessness of it. What did they do with the corpses once the hunt had finished? Games dreamed from the boredom of rich mechs were a world that he was unsure he wanted to explore too deeply.

Perceptor waved a hand airily, oblivious to Prime's inner monologue. "The runs are the other side of the parkway from the complex, so we don't normally clash."

"What about security? Does it stretch out that far? I didn't think Altihex had a standing army."

The microscope's expression became serious. "It doesn't. For either question. That is one of the reasons I have called you here."

He turned to look back at the towering highway, and Optimus, curiosity piqued, followed his gaze, waiting expectantly for the scientist to keep speaking.

Perceptor's expression was extremely uncomfortable. "It is... best not to say too much out here, other than that – needless to say -" he sighed, clearly attempting to reach diplomatic words that danced beyond his grasp, "It is wrong of me to speak ill of the dead. Zeta Prime saw the potential of Altihex and he put it to use as he saw fit – as befits a Prime."

An audio-splitting drone cut through the air, drowning Optimus' hesitant reply and causing both mechs to instinctively look to the dark sky. Nothing out of the ordinary moved.

"What was that...?" asked the young leader, not at all sure he wanted to know the answer.

"It might have come from the hub," said Perceptor uncertainly. "We should... I ought to verify status..."

"Why not use your communicator?"

Perceptor coughed awkwardly again, still distracted by the unsettling noise they had just heard. "Were it not for the fact that the information I need to verify is strictly classified at the highest level –"

The ground beneath Prime's feet trembled as, with a heavy and ominous THUD, something landed behind him and the red-bodied scientist.

Optimus was hardly aware of what happened next; there was a streak of pink-purple light and something turquoise flashed past his vision, splashing his face with fluid. Confused, he turned toward Perceptor, only to see the scientist standing dead still, an expression of shock frozen on his face, a stump beneath his shoulder all that remained of his right arm and a deep gash in his torso showing where the arc of the assault had eventually terminated. The microscope raised his other hand to touch the wound and turned his head toward it as though in a dream, letting out a soft 'oh' of realisation before fainting clean away.

Behind Perceptor's crumpling body loomed a sneering figure brandishing an energy sword, the crackling blade now stained with freshly-spilt energon. Even as Prime tensed, expecting to feel the weapon penetrate his exoplating, two more powerful, battle-scarred figures descended from the sky. They landed next to their comrade, who was now licking Perceptor's energon from his fingers with a look of sick delight.

Megatron's rebels. Altihex was neutral territory, and further away from Kaon than the southern Autobot strongholds of Praxus and Helix, yet Megatron had decided to have his warriors mount a sneak attack _here_...

Another thunderous roar sounded from overhead and this time Optimus clearly saw the outline of a jet framed against the stars. It was heading towards the science complex.

Cursing himself for not bringing his gun, Optimus tugged Perceptor up by his good arm, effortlessly slinging the unconscious mech over one shoulder as the rebel warriors jeered and readied their weapons. Fighting free from the aggressors with his spare hand, he set off at a sprint for the hub, pausing only to snatch Perceptor's dismembered arm from the floor. Laserfire burning his legs from misses so narrow they nicked his exoplating and the dead weight of the scientist slung over his shoulder bleeding energon, hot and sticky, down his arm, Prime tore toward the cluster of buildings, the howls of the bloodthirsty Kaonites ringing in his audios.

In the airspace above central Altihex, Prime could make out several more dark shapes, circling the hub in ever-tighter formation as though slowly but surely moving in for the kill. Barely thinking, he flicked open the communicator in the panel of his spare arm, half his concentration spent on listening to the crackle of static that emanated from the device and the other half devoted to sprinting.

"Prowl receiving," came the emotionless voice of Prime's subcommander, distorted slightly by the feedback. Prime's spark flipped in his chest – he had hoped Ironhide would be the one to respond. Every conversation with Prowl seemed to turn into a verbal battle, whereas Ironhide knew not to test Prime's patience.

"Scramble a platoon immediately," gasped the young leader, his voice raised above the drowning noise of jet engines. "I need back-up in Altihex."

"Negative, Prime. Protocol dictates that the Iacon Defence Force is for the defence of Ia-"

Prime lost it. "I couldn't give fewer frags about your protocol, Prowl!" he snapped impatiently, his ire building. "Get me a squadron of your elite warriors in Altihex NOW. _That's an order_!"

Taking the stunned silence as a sign of accession, Prime closed his communicator, his attention fully returned to the unfolding attack.

The Crystal Parkway passed by in a blur. In his new, powerful body, Optimus moved far faster than he ever could have hoped to as Optronix, and it was no surprise that the baying mechs chasing him quickly fell behind. As the footfalls grew fainter, a tiny swell of victory began in his chest – but it was short-lived. As the sound of running feet disappeared altogether, Optimus' spirits sank as rapidly as they had risen and he cursed himself for forgetting that the rebels who had attacked them could _fly..._

With a drowning roar, three black shapes tore overhead aimed straight for Altihex, and, though Optimus knew he was no longer being chased, he urged his body to move faster yet, as though everything depending on his reaching the hub before his enemies.

A low moan near his audio drew his attention to the mech across his back, and a slight movement, little more than a subtle tense of the limbs, verified that Perceptor had regained consciousness. Optimus could tell from the way the smaller scientist moved that he was gripping his injured shoulder tightly with his good arm, and from his shuddering pistons and heavy, rasping intakes that the wound was causing him great pain.

"I – I must evacuate -" Perceptor's voice was taut and almost harsh; he sounded nothing like himself as he mumbled into Prime's shoulder. "It is impera – nngh – imperative...!"

"Don't worry," the larger mech said reassuringly as he pushed his pistons to their limit, but the calming words did nothing for the microscope, who shook his head in weak frustration.

"No ... you _must_- "

Prime's response was drowned out by the terrible high-pitched squeal of missiles being released – and the Altihexian hub was too big a target to be missed. The young leader stopped running, his body freezing up in horror as he helplessly watched the first flame-streaked projectile crash through the roof of the largest building and explode, igniting the structure and sending shockwaves through the ground he stood on. Through the crackling of the inferno, barely audible over the roaring of engines, came the faint sound of yelling, panicking voices.

Perceptor had tensed against his shoulder almost impossibly, his voice reduced to a low but urgent hiss: "you must not let it flash over!"

"What?"

"Zeta Prime has been using Altihex... as munitions storage..."

"_What_!"

As Prime turned his head towards Perceptor in stunned disbelief, everything was enveloped in a blinding flash of light, so bright it caused Prime's optical circuitry to glitch. Disoriented, he slowed his sprint to a jog, hesitant to continue running blindly.

At first there was no noise, just a deafening silence.

Then the heat blast, accompanied by a thunderous roar, came strong enough to hurl Prime through the air; the force was enough to toss him around as though he were little more than a leaf trembling before a storm. . Perceptor was ripped from his arms.

Landing painfully and tumbling across the ground for quite a distance, propelled by secondary shock waves, Prime was aware of himself crying out but could not hear it – the deafening noise of the explosion had apparently caused his audio receptors to reset. Swimming vision slowly returning to normal as it recovered from the shock of the bright flash of white, Prime was briefly able to see a pillar of fire towering over the science hub before a rain of shrapnel and debris forced him to protectively cover his head with his arms. He could feel the heat of it burning his body.

oOo

Prime never knew how long he lay there, dazed and half-covered by a pile of dust and rubble. He slowly came around to the feeling of something or someone pushing insistently on his shoulder. As one arm twitched in an attempt to raise and bat whatever-it-was away, muffled noises jumbled in his processor against the backdrop of a continuous ringing that he could not get away from.

"- _ime_!"

"Whzzat," asked Optimus stupidly, his question more static than voice. Rubble fell from his body as he moved his head towards the source of the noise, which was becoming ever clearer, and he became dimly aware of sharp pains shooting through his entire body from various points in his limbs. Something heavy was lying across his lower back, pressing him into the ground.

"Prime – _Prime_! Get ahold of yourself!" Something shook him again and, as if that was the switch, Prime snapped into alertness. His hands found Prowl's forearms and he gripped tightly as he found himself staring into his sub-commander's concerned face.

Prowl sighed with what Prime might, if it had been any other mech, have called relief. Though the noise was still thick and slightly distorted, as though Prime was listening to it through a tunnel of tar, the ringing in his audios had quietened to a volume slightly less than all-consuming, and he could at least make out words.

"Prowl...?" Optimus asked, still a little disoriented. As his vision returned, he could vaguely make out the shapes of other mechs moving around him, framed against a horizon of red and silhouetted by a veil of smoke. Irregular lights of red and deep orange flickered around the landscape that was otherwise black and choking.

"Altihex is burning," said Prowl bluntly. "There's nothing left here. We're taking you back to Iacon."

"Survivors – are there -?"

"Few," answered Prowl grimly. "I have a field medic treating them for shock and superficial burns. It seems that all who were closer than you to the epicentre were obliterated. You were lucky."

Prime groaned as he felt the mass which had been pressing down on his back suddenly lift away. Turning his head slightly, he could see two warriors struggling under the weight of what looked like a large piece of the science hub's roof. It had apparently been blown on top of him, though it wasn't until it had gone that he began to notice the ache of a crushed backstrut.

"What about – Perceptor?"

Again, Prowl's expression was grim. "He's alive. Barely. He needs more attention than we can give him here. We must return to Iacon."

Optimus looked towards the tower of flames, only just visible through the blanket of smoke. He thought he could hear the screams of mechs trapped inside, but knew that Prowl would not have lied to him about survivors. There were no survivors.

Other than -

"What about us?" came a voice that, while shaken and quivering, still managed to retain tones of haughty detachment. Prime stared at the source of it, though it was hard to make anything out clearly through the foggy blanket of blackness that lingered over the gutted city.

Through the haze of smoke, a small group of mechs became visible. Optimus recognised them instantly as the hunting group that had hailed Perceptor earlier that same orn, though their plating was no longer smart and well-cared for. Instead, their faces were blackened with soot, their paint chipped and peeling away, the metal underneath scorched by heat. They had clearly, like Prime and Perceptor, been caught in a rain of debris, as each mech had several open wounds, some of which still had shards of shrapnel protruding from them. However, despite these superficial injuries and though clearly shaken, it seemed that the group had been far enough away from the Altihexian hub to escape the worst of the explosion; not one had a serious injury.

Nevertheless... "Of course, you may come with us to Iacon and seek refuge there," answered Prime quietly. The ringing in his audios had almost completely disappeared. "You will be afforded the full protection of the Iaconian military, and will be supplied with energon and shelter."

Even without looking at Prowl, Prime knew what was coming.

"Prime," said the sub-commander in a predictably taut voice, "I must protest. Iacon protocol states we cannot allow outsiders -"

"I will not be argued with on this, Prowl," interrupted Prime, his voice tired but clearly thin on patience. "If you can honestly tell me that these mechs would not have lost their home today if not for Iacon dragging Altihex into this conflict, then you may protest. If not, then for once in your life, silence your vocaliser!"

The tactician's back straightened as though he had been physically struck by Prime's words, but he offered no answer.

Something moved in Prime's peripheral vision as he was helped unsteadily to his feet by one of Prowl's subordinates and he glanced over in time to see another two members of the rescue party haul the limp form of Perceptor from the wreckage. A large piece of debris had pierced the scientist's chest and lodged itself firmly in, standing straight up at an angle from the unmoving body like some gruesome flagpole. His spark was visible through the wound, flickering very dimly. Prime tried not to look.

"... we need to go," he said quietly.

When Prowl nodded his silent acquiescence and started directing the survivors towards the transport vehicle his squadron had used, Prime attempted to stand but he fell back with a groan as his legs screamed in protest. Everything below the part of his back that had been crushed had been numb until he had tried to move, but now every receptor was alive in a sea of fire, the waves of which licked agony through his body.

Unable to bite back a gasp of pain as the unbearable burning lanced through his legs and up his back, tensed against the ground, his optics barely flickering as he felt hands snake around his shoulder and back.

"Steady," said a quiet voice near his audio. It was Prowl. Prime felt him make a gesture, and then another pair of hands joined the first, strong and reassuring against his aching back.

Supported by Prowl on one side and one of the medics on the other, Prime was hauled upright, though his legs were unable to take his weight and he was forced to rely entirely on the two mechs helping him. Together, Prowl and his medic half-hauled, half-dragged their stricken leader away from the smoking ruins of Altihex and the burning mounds of rubble that remained of the once-great science hub.

* * *

A/N: dur hur wow so I totally expected this to have been up last year some time? Sorry for the ridiculous delay, chaps and chappesses. Life got in the way. I'd just like to reassure you all that Flashover is _not_ being abandoned, and even if there are long delays (demonstrated so aptly by this one), I have every intention of finishing this. I'm far too invested in it now to leave it.

For those of you who have stuck around to see this update, thanks. I'll try and be more prompt for your sake.


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